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SELECTED  WRITINGS 
OF    WILLIAM   SHARP 

UNIFORM  EDITION 
ARRANGED  BY 
MRS.  WILLIAM  SHARP 

VOLUME   II 


STUDIES   AND 
APPRECIATIONS 

BY  WILLIAM   SHARP 


SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED  BY 

MRS.  WILLIAM  SHARP 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
1912 


When  I  speak  of  Criticism  I  have  in 
mind  not  merely  the  more  or  less  deft  use 
of  commentary  or  indication,  but  one  of 
the  several  ways  of  literature,  and  in 
itself  a  rare  and  -fine  art :  the  marriage 
of  science  that  knows  and  of  spirit  that 
discerns.  The  basis  of  Criticism  is 
imagination,  its  spiritual  quality  is 
simplicity,  its  intellectual  distinction  is 
balance. 

WILLIAM  SHARP 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE   SONNET  :     ITS   CHARACTERISTICS   AND 

HISTORY  i 

SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS  71 

GREAT  ODES  106 

"  LA  JEUNE  BELGIQUE  "  140 

SAINTE-BEUVE  188 

THE  MODERN  TROUBADOURS  249 

SOME  DRAMAS  OF  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO  309 

ITALIAN  POETS  OF  TO-DAY  337 

THE  HEROIC  AND  LEGENDARY  LITERATURE 

OF  BRITTANY  394 

THE  SEVENFOLD  NEED  IN  LITERATURE  422 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  423 


THE  SONNET 

ITS  CHARACTERISTICS  AND  HISTORY 

FOR  the  concise  expression  of  an  isolated 
poetic  thought — an  intellectual  or  sensuous 
"  wave "  keenly  felt,  emotionally  and 
rhythmically — the  sonnet  would  seem  to 
be  the  best  medium,  the  means  apparently 
prescribed  by  certain  radical  laws  of  melody 
and  harmony;  in  other  words,  of  nature  ; 
even  as  the  swallow's  wing  is  the  best  for 
rapid  volant  wheel  and  shift,  as  the  heron's 
for  mounting  by  wide  gyrations,  as  that  of  the 
kite  or  the  albatross  for  sustained  suspension. 

To  bring  this  more  clearly  home  to  the 
mind  of  the  reader  unacquainted  with  the 
true  scope  of  our  sonnet-literature  and  of 
the  technique  of  the  sonnet  itself,  and  to 
illustrate  its  development  and  capacities,  is 
the  aim  of  this  essay. 

It  is  no  new  ground  that  is  here  broken. 
The  sonnet  has  had  many  apologists  and 
critical  historians,  and  has  been  considered 
from  many  points  of  view.  Chief  among 

II  I  A 


those  of  our  countrymen  who  have  devoted 
themselves  to  the  special  study  of  this 
fascinating  poetic  vehicle  may  be  named 
the  following  :  Capel  Lofft,  who  in  1813-14 
published  under  the  title  of  Laura  a  valuable 
and  interesting  but  very  unequal  and  badly 
arranged  anthology  of  original  and  trans- 
lated sonnets ;  R.  F.  Housman,  who  in 
1833  issued  a  good  selection,  with  an 
interesting  prefatory  note ;  Dyce,  whose 
small  but  judiciously  compiled  volume  was 
a  pleasant  possession  at  a  time  when 
sonnet-literature  gained  but  slight  public 
attention  ;  Leigh  Hunt,  who  laboured  in 
this  field  genuinely  con  amore  ;  Charles  Tom- 
linson,  whose  work  on  the  sonnet  has  much  of 
abiding  value  ;  John  Dennis,  whose  English 
Sonnets  served  as  an  unmistakable  index 
to  the  awakening  of  general  interest  in  this 
poetic  form ;  David  M.  Main,  an  accom- 
plished student  of  literature  and  a  critic 
possessing  the  true  instinct,  whose  honour 
it  is  to  have  produced  the  most  exhaustive 
sonnet-anthology — with  quite  a  large  volume- 
ful  of  notes — in  our  language  (for  Capel 
Lofft's  Laura  is  largely  made  up  of  Italian 
sonnets  and  translations) ;  Samuel  Wadding- 
ton,  who  a  year  or  two  ago  produced  two 
pleasant  little  volumes  of  selections  ;  and, 
2 


The  Sonnet 

finally,  Hall  Caine,  whose  Sonnets  of  Three 
Centuries  at  once  obtained  the  success  which 
that  ably  edited  compilation  deserved.  To 
all  these  writers,  but,  from  the  student's 
point  of  view,  of  course  more  especially 
to  Main,  the  present  editor  is  indebted,  as 
must  be  every  future  worker  in  this  secluded 
but  not  least  beautiful  section  of  the  Garden 
of  Poetry.  There  are,  moreover,  one  or  two 
students  who  have  done  good  service  in 
this  cause  without  having  published  in  book 
form  either  their  opinions  or  any  sonnet- 
anthology  ;  especially  among  these  should 
reference  be  made  to  the  anonymous  writer 
of  two  admirable  papers  on  the  sonnet  in 
the  Quarterly  Review  (1866)  ;  to  the  anony- 
mous author  of  the  thoughtful  and  sugges- 
tive article  in  the  Westminster  Review  (1871)  ; 
and  to  the  anonymous  contributor  of  the 
two  highly  interesting  papers  on  sonnet- 
literature  which  appeared  in  the  Dublin 
Review  for  1876  and  1877 ;  to  Ashcroft 
Noble,  a  capable  and  discriminating  critic, 
whose  article  in  the  Contemporary  Review 
attracted  considerable  notice  ;  to  the  late 
Rector  of  Lincoln  College,  Mark  Pattison, 
who  prefaced  his  edition  of  Milton's  sonnets 
with  a  suggestive  essay  ;  to  the  late  Arch- 
bishop Trench,  the  value  of  whose  edition 
3 


The  Sonnet 

of  Wordsworth's  sonnets  is  heightened  in 
the  same  way  ;  to  J.  Addington  Symonds  ; 
and  to  Theodore  Watts-Dunton,  whose 
influence  in  this  direction  is  very  marked. 
Nor  should  I  omit  to  mention  two  charm- 
ing French  anthologies,  La  Monographic  des 
Sonnets  of  Louis  de  Veyri£res  and  Le  Livre 
des  Sonnets  of  Charles  Asselineau. 

The  reasons  for  now  issuing  a  new  collec- 
tion *  are  two :  to  show  how  much  of  the 
poetic  thought  of  our  own  time  has  been 
cast  in  the  mould  of  the  sonnet,  and  how 
worthy  that  mould  is  of  the  honour  ;  and, 
by  the  formation  of  an  anthology  of  which 
the  first  and  only  absolute  principle  is  the 
inclusion  of  no  sonnet  that  does  not  possess 
— of  course  in  varying  degree — distinct 
poetic  value,  to  meet  the  widespread  and 
manifestly  increasing  appreciation  of  and 
liking  for  this  metrical  form.  Even  yet  no 
more  can  with  justice  be  said  than  that  it 
is  limitedly  popular,  for  not  only  is  there  still 
a  general  ignorance  of  what  a  sonnet  really 
is  and  what  technical  qualities  are  essential 
to  a  fine  specimen  of  this  poetic  genus,  but 
a  perfect  plague  of  feeble  productions  in 
f ourteen-lines  has  done  its  utmost,  ever  since 
Wordsworth's  influence  became  a  recognised 
*  See  Bibliographical  Note. 
4 


The  Sonnet 

factor,  to  render  the  sonnet  as  effete  a  form 
of  metrical  expression  as  the  irregular  ballad- 
stanza  with  a  meaningless  refrain. 

Concerning  every  method  of  expression, 
in  each  of  the  arts,  there  is  always  a  pro  and 
contra ;  but  few  metrical  forms  have  been 
more  fortunate  than  the  sonnet,  for  its 
contras  have  generally  been  pronounced 
either  by  persons  quite  ignorant  of  what 
they  were  discussing  or  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating any  excellence  save  when  meted  out 
as  it  were  by  the  yard.  On  the  other  hand, 
those  who  have  studied  it  love  it  as  the 
naturalist  loves  his  microscope — and  verit- 
ably, like  the  microscope,  it  discloses  many 
beautiful  things  which,  if  embedded  in  some 
greater  mass,  might  have  been  but  faintly 
visible  and  incoherent.  Then  some  of  the 
greatest  of  poets  have  used  it,  not  a  few 
having  selected  it  as  the  choicest  mould  into 
which  to  cast  their  most  personal,  their 
most  vivid  utterances  :  thus  did  Petrarca, 
and  thus  in  less  exclusive  degree  did  Dante 
and  Milton ;  thus  Shakespeare  did,  and 
Mrs.  Browning,  and  Wordsworth,  and 
Rossetti,  and  many  another  true  poet  in 
our  own  and  other  lands.  The  stirring  of 
the  poetic  impulse  is  very  markedly  at  work 
among  us  at  present,  and  there  is  no  more 
5 


The  Sonnet 

remarkable  sign  of  the  times  than  the 
steadily  growing  public  appreciation  of  the 
sonnet  as  a  poetic  vehicle.  For  one  thing, 
its  conciseness  is  an  immense  boon  in  these 
days  when  books  multiply  like  gossamer-flies 
in  a  sultry  June  ;  it  is  realised  that  if  good 
a  sonnet  can  speedily  be  read  and  enjoyed, 
that  if  exceptionally  fine  it  can  with  ease 
be  committed  to  memory,  and  that  if  bad 
it  can  be  recognised  as  such  at  a  glance,  and 
can  be  relegated  to  oblivion  by  the  turning 
of  a  single  page.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the 
writer  in  the  Dublin  Review  is  correct  when 
he  regards  "  the  increasing  attention  be- 
stowed on  the  history  and  structure  of  the 
sonnet  as  an  indication  of  the  growth  of  a 
higher  and  healthier  poetical  taste."  It 
may  be  remembered  that  Leigh  Hunt  makes 
a  statement  to  the  effect  that  the  love  of 
Italian  poetry  has  always  been  greatest  in 
England  when  English  genius  has  been  in 
its  most  poetical  condition  ;  this  has,  as  I 
think  most  will  agree,  been  true  in  the  past, 
even  up  to  so  late  a  date  as  the  middle  of 
this  century,  and  if  a  renascence  of  this 
interest  have  a  prophetic  quality,  then  we 
should  be  on  the  eve  of  a  new  poetic  period, 
for  once  again  early  Italian  poetry  is  claim- 
ing its  students  and  its  many  admirers.  And 
6 


The  Sonnet 

perhaps  nothing  in  Italian  poetry  is  better 
worth  study  than  its  beautiful  sonnet-litera- 
ture. Whether  in  Italy  or  in  England,  "  no 
form  of  verse,"  as  Waddington  has  well 
remarked,  "  no  description  of  poetic  com- 
position, has  yielded  a  richer  harvest  than 
the  sonnet."  One  can  agree  with  this  without 
fully  endorsing  Menzini's  statement  that  the 
sonnet  is  the  touchstone  of  great  geniuses  ; 
for  it  must  not  be  overlooked  that  some  of 
our  truest  poets,  living  as  well  as  dead,  are 
unable  to  write  sonnets  of  the  first  class — 
noticeably,  for  instance,  two  such  masters 
of  verbal  music  as  Shelley  and  Coleridge 
— nor  must  it  for  a  moment  be  forgotten 
that  no  one  form  has  a  monopoly  of  the  most 
treasurable  poetic  beauty,  that  the  mould 
is  a  very  secondary  matter  compared  with 
the  substance  which  renders  it  vital,  and 
that  a  fine  poem  in  not  altogether  the  best 
form  is  infinitely  better  than  a  poor  or 
feeble  one  in  a  flawless  structure.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  poetic  impulse  that  arises 
out  of  the  suddenly  kindled  imagination 
may  generally  be  trusted  instinctively  to 
find  expression  through  the  medium  that 
is  most  fitting  for  it.  To  employ  a  humble 
simile,  a  poetic  idea  striving  towards  or 
passing  into  utterance  is  often  like  one  of 

7 


The  Sonnet 

those  little  hermit-crabs  which  creep  into 
whatever  shell  suits  them  the  moment  they 
are  ready  to  leave  their  too  circumscribed 
abodes.  Poetry  I  take  to  be  the  dynamic 
condition  of  the  imaginative  and  rhythmical 
faculties  in  combination,  finding  expression 
verbally  and  metrically — and  the  animating 
principle  is  always  of  necessity  greater  than 
the  animated  form,  as  the  soul  is  superior 
to  the  body.  Before  entering  on  the  subject 
of  the  technique  of  the  sonnet,  on  its  chief 
types,  and  on  its  legitimate  and  irregular 
variations,  a  few  words  may  be  said  con- 
cerning the  derivation  of  its  name  and  its 
earliest  history. 

It  is  generally  agreed  that  "  sonnet  "  is  an 
abbreviation  of  the  Italian  sonetto,  a  short 
strain  (literally,  a  little  sound),  that  word 
being  the  diminutive  of  suono  =  sound.  The 
sonetto  was  originally  a  poem  recited  with 
sound,  that  is,  with  a  musical  accompani- 
ment, a  short  poem  of  the  rispetto  kind,  sung 
to  the  strains  of  lute  or  mandolin.  Prob- 
ably it  had  an  existence,  and  possibly  even 
its  name,  at  a  period  considerably  anterior 
to  that  where  we  first  find  definite  mention 
of  it,  just  as  the  irregular  stanzaic  form  known 
as  the  ballad  existed  in  England  and  Scotland 
prior  to  any  generally  accepted  definition 
8 


The  Sonnet 

thereof.  As  to  its  first  birthplace  there  is 
some  uncertainty.  It  has  been  asserted  to 
have  been  a  native  of  Provence,  that  mother 
of  poets,  but  some  have  it  that  the  sonnet 
is  an  outcome  of  the  Greek  epigram.  This 
idea  is  certainly  not  defensible,  but,  while 
it  has  been  ridiculed  as  unworthy  of  enter- 
tainment, the  scoffers  seem  generally  to  have 
had  in  mind  the  modern  epigram,  a  very 
different  thing.  The  essential  principle  of 
the  ancient  epigram  was  the  presentment  of 
a  single  idea,  emotion,  or  fact,  and  in  this 
it  is  entirely  at  one  with  the  rival  that  has 
supplanted  it — but  in  technique  it  was  much 
simpler.  It  is  much  more  likely  that  the 
stornello  was  the  Italian  equivalent  of  the 
sonnet — that  fleeting  bar  of  verbal  melody, 
which  in  its  narrow  compass  of  two  lines 
presents  one  fact  of  nature  and  one 
metaphorical  allusion  based  thereon.  The 
stornello  stands  in  perhaps  even  closer  rela- 
tionship to  the  ancient  epigram  than  the 
rispetto  to  the  modern  sonnet.  To  readers 
interested  in  the  true  epigram,  and  unac- 
quainted with  recent  translations  of  or 
works  thereon,  I  may  recommend  Dr. 
Richard  Garnett's  delightful  little  volume, 
Idylls  and  Epigrams,  and  William  Watson's 
Original  Epigrams,  with  its  admirable  Note. 
9 


The  Sonnet 

Housman  compares  the  epigram  and  the 
sonnet  to  the  well-known  Grecian  archi- 
tectural types,  the  Ionic  column  and  the 
Corinthian — the  former  a  specimen  of  pure 
and  graceful  beauty,  the  latter  of  more 
elaborate  but  still  of  equally  pure  and 
graceful  genius.  A  very  far-fetched  theory 
is  that  the  sonnet  is  an  Italian  shadow  of 
the  ancient  ode,  its  divisions  corresponding 
with  the  strophe,  antistrophe,  epode,  and 
antepode.  It  is  not  in  the  least  likely  that 
this  may  have  been  its  origin  ;  it  is  scarcely 
more  probable  that  its  source  may  have  been 
the  ancient  epigram.  In  all  likelihood  it  was 
of  Sicilian  birth,  gradually  forming  or  being 
moulded  into  a  certain  recognised  type,  and 
apparently  the  outcome  of  the  stornelli 
which  every  contadino  sang  as  he  pruned 
his  olive-trees  or  tended  his  vines.  Yet 
another  origin  has  been  claimed  for  the 
word,  viz.,  that  it  is  the  French  sonnette, 
and  that  its  parentage  may  be  primarily 
ascribed  to  the  tinkling  sheep-bells  of 
Provencal  days.  The  stornello  is  the  germ  of 
its  popular  allies,  the  sestina  rima,  ottava 
rima,  and  the  rispetto.  The  stornello  con- 
sists of  two  lines,  or  it  may  be  of  four,  on 
two  rhymes  ;  and  from  this  metrical  type 
issues  in  time  the  sonnet.  The  sestina  rima 
10 


The  Sonnet 

is  the  original  quatrain  with  an  added 
couplet  on  a  new  rhyme  ;  the  ottava  rima  is 
an  expansion  of  the  original  form  into  six 
lines  on  two  rhymes,  with  a  concluding 
couplet  as  in  the  sestina  ;  in  the  rispetto,  as 
accurately  characterised  by  J.  A.  Symonds, 
the  quatrain  is  doubled  or  prolonged  inde- 
finitely, and  is  followed  by  an  additional 
system  of  one  or  more  couplets  which  return 
or  reflect  upon  the  original  theme, — the 
quatrain  or  its  expansion  being  composed 
upon  two  rhymes,  the  prolongation,  or 
return,  upon  two  other  rhymes.  In  the 
sonnet  the  germinal  four  lines  have  developed 
into  two  quatrains,  still  on  two  rhymes  :  and 
the  prolongation  invariably  consists  of  six 
lines,  on  either  two  or  three  rhymes,  with 
some  freedom  of  arrangement. 

Like  a  plant  of  steady  growth,  the  seedling 
of  the  sonnet,  having  fallen  into  suitable 
ground  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  gradually  forced  its 
obscure  and  tortuous  way  towards  the  light. 
Considerably  before  the  close  of  the  thir- 
teenth century  we  find  it  in  fulfilled  bud,  in 
due  time  to  open  into  the  mature  Petrarcan 
flower,  the  perfected  stock  whence  such  a 
multiplicity  of  varieties  has  come.  Many 
buds  did  indeed  arise  about  the  same 
ii 


The  Sonnet 

period,  and  there  is  still  preserved  at  Milan 
(according  to  Muratori,  in  his  Perfetta  Poesia) 
a  manuscript  Latin  treatise  on  poems  in  the 
Italian  vernacular — Poetica  volgare — written 
in  the  year  1332  by  a  learned  and  ingenious 
judge  of  Padua  named  Antonio  di  Tempo, 
wherein  mention  is  made  of  sixteen  distinct 
species  of  sonnet,  most  of  them  posterior 
to   the   unfolding   of  the   finest   and   most 
energetic  bud,   but  some  anterior  thereto. 
To  carry  on  the  metaphor  a  little  further, 
the  gardener  who  tended  and  cultivated  this 
choice  bud  was  a  certain  clerical  poet  known 
widely  as  Fra  Guittone  d'Arezzo — not  the 
least  worthy  among  the  illustrious  little  band 
which  that  small  Italian  town  has  produced. 
At  the  same  time,  such  honour  as  is  due  must 
be  rendered  to  a  little-known  predecessor  in 
the  art,  the  author  of  the  sonnet  beginning 
Perd  ch'amore,  which,  as  J.  A.  Symonds  has 
pointed    out,    is    presumably    the    earliest 
extant  example  of   this  metrical  structure. 
The  poet  in  question  was  Piero  delle  Vigne, 
Secretary  of  State  to  Frederick  II.  of  Sicily, 
and  while  his  little  poem  differs  from  the 
typical  Italian  sonnet  in  that  the  rhyme- 
arrangement  of  the  octave  is  simply  that  of 
two   ordinary   conjoint    quatrains,    or   two 
rhymes  throughout,  it  is  a  true  example  in 
12 


The  Sonnet 

all  other  particulars.  Fra  Guittone  flourished 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  and  he  it  was  who  first  definitely 
adopted  and  adhered  to  what  was  even  then 
recognised  as  the  best  modern  form  for  the 
expression  of  an  isolated  emotion,  thought, 
or  idea.  His  sonnets  are  not  only  the  model 
of  those  of  his  great  successor,  Petrarca,  but 
are  also  in  themselves  excellent  productions, 
and  especially  noteworthy  when  considered 
in  relation  to  the  circumstances  under  which 
they  came  into  existence.  From  the  work 
of  Guittone  d'Arezzo — whom  Capel  Lofft 
called  the  Columbus  of  poetic  literature, 
from  his  having  discovered  the  sonnet 
even  as  the  Genoese  navigator  discovered 
America — to  that  of  the  sweetest-voiced 
of  all  Italian  poets,  there  is  a  considerable 
step.  The  period  was  eminently  an  experi- 
mental one,  and  in  sonnet-literature  as 
elsewhere.  While  the  Guittonian  sonnet 
remained  the  most  admired  model,  many 
variations  thereof  and  divergencies  therefrom 
became  temporarily  popular,  exerting  an  un- 
fortunate influence  by  allowing  free  scope  to 
slovenly  or  indifferent  workmanship.  But 
Petrarca  and  Dante  laid  an  ineffaceable 
seal  on  the  Guittonian  form,  not  prohibit- 
ing minor  variations,  and  even  themselves 
13 


The  Sonnet 

indulging  in  experimental  divergencies ;  in  the 
hands  of  the  one  it  gained  an  exquisite  beauty, 
a  subtle  music  abidingly  sweet,  and  in  those 
of  the  other  a  strength  and  vigour  that 
supplied  as  it  were  the  masculine  element  to 
the  already  existent  feminine.  Tasso  and  the 
other  great  Italians  followed  suit,  and  the 
sonnet  became  the  favourite  Italian  poetic 
vehicle,  as  it  remains  to  this  day,  though, 
alas  !  but  the  body  still  lives,  the  soul  having 
fled  or — it  may  be — lying  in  a  profound 
and  apparently  undisturbable  trance.  J.  A. 
Symonds  has  objected  that  this  statement 
can  hardly  be  taken  literally  in  view  of  the 
excellent  poems  of  Stecchetti  and  the  Verini, 
but,  broadly  speaking,  it  can  hardly  be 
doubted  that  the  sonnet  in  Italy  has  fallen 
upon  evil  days  when  it  is  mostly  to  be  found 
adorning  young  ladies'  albums,  or  as  an 
accompaniment  to  presents  of  flowers  and 
confectionery.  In  due  course  Camoens  in 
the  South,  Du  Bellay  and  the  early  French 
poets  in  the  West,  and  Surrey  and  Spenser 
in  England,  turned  towards  this  form  as 
birds  towards  a  granary  unroofed  by  the 
wind.  Concerning  Hall  Caine's  theory  that 
the  English  sonnet  is  an  indigenous  growth, 
I  shall  have  something  to  say  later  on. 
It  will  be  well  to  consider  the  sonnet  in  a 
14 


The  Sonnet 

threefold  aspect :  the  aspect  of  Formal 
Excellence,  that  of  Characteristic  Excellence, 
and  that  of  Ideal  Excellence.  By  the  first 
I  refer  to  technique  simply  ;  by  the  second 
to  individuality,  expression  ;  by  the  third 
to  the  union  of  imagination,  suggestiveness, 
melody  of  word  and  line,  and  harmony  of 
structure.  The  section  of  this  essay  devoted 
to  the  consideration  of  Formal  Excellence  may 
be  comprehensively  headed  Sonnet-Structure. 

Sonnet-Structure.  It  is  a  matter  of  sur- 
prise that  even  now  there  are  many  well- 
read  people  who  have  no  other  idea  of  what 
a  sonnet  is  than  that  it  is  a  short  poem — 
what  kind  of  short  poem  they  very  vaguely 
apprehend.  I  have  heard  it  described  as 
any  short  poem  of  one  or  more  stanzas  used 
for  filling  up  blank  spaces  in  magazine- 
pages — a  definition  not  so  very  absurd  when 
we  remember  that  a  poet  and  critic  like 
Coleridge  pronounced  it  "a  medium  for 
the  expression  of  a  mere  momentary  burst 
of  passion."  But  the  majority  of  readers  of 
poetry  know  that  it  is  limited  to  fourteen 
lines  in  length  ;  beyond  this  the  knowledge 
of  all  save  a  comparative  few  does  not  go. 

The  commonest  complaint  against  the 
sonnet  is  its  supposed  arbitrariness — a  com- 
plaint based  on  a  complete  misconception 
15 


The  Sonnet 

of  its  nature.  In  the  sense  that  a  steersman 
must  abide  by  the  arbitrary  law  of  the  com- 
pass, in  the  sense  that  the  engine-driver 
must  abide  by  the  arbitrary  machinery  of 
the  engineer,  in  the  sense  that  the  battalion 
must  wheel  to  the  right  or  left  at  the  arbitrary 
word  of  command — in  this  sense  is  the  sonnet 
an  arbitrary  form.  Those  who  complain 
seem  to  forget  that  the  epic,  the  tragedy,  the 
ode,  are  also  arbitrary  forms,  and  that  it  is 
somewhat  out  of  place  to  rail  against  estab- 
lished rules  of  architecture  in  the  erection  of 
a  cottage  and  to  blink  those  in  the  building 
of  a  mansion  or  a  palace.  Any  form  of 
creative  art,  to  survive,  must  conform  to 
certain  restrictions  :  would  Paradise  Lost 
hold  its  present  rank  if  Milton  had  inter- 
spersed Cavalier  and  Roundhead  choruses 
throughout  his  epic  ?  What  would  we  think 
of  the  Mneid  if  Virgil  had  enlivened  its  pages 
with  Catullan  love-songs  or  comic  inter- 
ludes after  the  manner  of  Plautus  or  Terence? 
The  structure  of  the  sonnet  is  arbitrary  in 
so  far  as  it  is  the  outcome  of  continuous 
experiment  moulded  by  mental  and  musical 
influences ;  it  is  not  a  form  to  be  held  sacred 
simply  because  this  or  that  great  poet,  or  a 
dozen  poets,  pronounced  it  to  be  the  best  pos- 
sible poetic  vehicle  for  its  purpose .  It  has  with- 
16 


The  Sonnet 

stood  the  severest  test  that  any  form  can  be 
put  to :  it  has  survived  the  changes  of  lan- 
guage, the  fluctuations  of  taste,  the  growth 
of  culture,  the  onward  sweep  and  the  resi- 
lience of  the  wave  of  poetry  that  flows  to 
and  fro,  "  with  kingly  pauses  of  reluctant 
pride,"  across  all  civilised  peoples, — for 
close  upon  six  hundred  years  have  elapsed 
since  Fra  Guittone  and  Dante  and  Petrarca 
found  the  perfect  instrument  ready  for  them 
to  play  their  sweetest  music  upon.  Guittone 
was  like  the  first  man  who  adventured  fre- 
quently upon  the  waters  in  a  wedge-shaped 
craft,  after  whom  every  one  agreed  that 
grooved  and  narrow  bows  were  better  than 
the  roundness  of  a  tub  or  the  clumsy  length 
of  a  hollowed  tree-trunk.  Or  again,  he  may 
be  compared  with  the  great  Florentine 
painter  Masaccio,  who  first  introduced  the 
reality  of  life  into  Italian  art,  or  with  the 
even  greater  Fleming,  Jan  van  Eyck,  who 
invented,  or  at  any  rate  inaugurated,  painting 
in  oils  as  now  understood. 

The  Guittonian  limitation  of  the  sonnet's 
length  to  fourteen  lines  was,  we  may  rest 
assured,  not  wholly  fortuitous.  The  musical 
and  poetic  instinct  probably,  however,  deter- 
mined its  final  form  more  than  any  appre- 
hension of  the  fundamental  natural  law 

ii  17  B 


The  Sonnet 

beneath  its  metrical  principles.  The  multi- 
plicity and  easy  facility  of  Italian  rhymes 
rendered  the  more  limited  epigram  of  the 
ancients  too  malleable  a  metrical  material 
in  one  way,  and  too  obstinate  a  material  in 
another ;  for,  while  almost  any  one  with  a 
quick  ear  and  ready  tongue  could  have 
rattled  off  a  loose  quatrain,  it  was  difficult 
to  give  sufficient  weight  and  sonority  there- 
to with  a  language  where  rhyme-sounds 
are  as  plentiful  as  pebbles  in  a  shallow 
mountain-stream.  It  became  necessary,  then, 
to  find  a  mould  for  the  expression  of  a  single 
thought,  emotion,  or  poetically  apprehended 
fact,  which  would  allow  sufficient  scope  for 
sonority  of  music  and  the  unfolding  of 
the  motive  and  its  application,  and  yet 
would  not  prove  too  ample  for  that  which 
was  to  be  put  into  it.  Repeated  experi- 
ments tended  to  prove  that  twelve,  fourteen, 
or  sixteen  lines  were  ample  for  the  presenta- 
tion of  any  isolated  idea  or  emotion  ;  again, 
that  the  sensitive  ear  was  apt  to  find  the 
latter  number  a  shade  too  long,  or  cumbrous ; 
and  still  later,  that  while  a  very  limited 
number  of  rhymes  was  necessitated  by  the 
shortness  of  the  poem,  the  sixteen  rever- 
berations of  some  three  or  four  terminal 
sounds  frequently  became  monotonous  and 
18 


The  Sonnet 

unpleasing.  Ten-  or  twelve-line  poems  were 
ascertained  to  be  as  a  rule  somewhat  frag- 
mentary, and  worthily  served  only  when  the 
poet  was  desirous  of  presenting  to  his  readers 
a  simple  pearl  rather  than  a  diamond  with  its 
flashing  facets,  though  here  also  there  was 
not  enough  expansion  for  restricted  rhyme, 
while  there  was  too  much  for  merely  two  or 
at  the  most  three  distinct  terminal  sounds. 
Again,  it  was  considered  advisable  that  the 
expression  should  be  twofold,  that  is,  that 
there  should  be  the  presentation  of  the  motive, 
and  its  application  ;  hence  arose  the  division 
of  the  fourteen-line  poem  into  two  systems. 
How  were  these  systems  to  be  arranged  ? 
Were  seven  lines  to  be  devoted  to  the  pre- 
sentation of  the  idea  or  emotion,  and  seven 
to  its  application  :  seven  to  the  growth  of 
the  tree,  and  seven  to  its  fruitage  :  seven 
to  the  oncoming  wave,  and  seven  to  its 
resurge  ?  The  sensitive  ear  once  more  decided 
the  question,  recognising  that  if  there  were 
to  be  a  break  in  the  flow  of  melody — and  the 
necessity  of  pauses  it  had  already  foreseen — 
it  could  not  be  at  a  seventh  line,  which 
would  bring  about  an  overbalance  of  rhyme. 
Experience  and  metrical  music  together 
coincided  to  prove  that  the  greatest  amount 
of  dignity  and  beauty  could  be  obtained  by 
19 


The  Sonnet 

the  main  pause  occurring  at  the  end  of  the 
eighth  line.  Here,  then,  we  arrive  at  the 
two  systems  into  which  the  sonnet  is  divided 
— the  major  and  the  minor  ;  and  because 
the  major  system  consists  of  eight  lines,  it 
is  called  the  "  octave,"  and  correspondingly 
the  minor  system  is  known  as  the  "  sestet." 
It  soon  became  evident,  however,  that  some- 
thing more  was  wanted  :  it  was  as  if  a  harpist 
had  discovered  that  with  another  string  or 
two  he  could  greatly  add  to  the  potential 
powers  of  his  instrument.  This  was  the 
number  and  the  true  distribution  of  rhyme- 
sounds.  How  many  were  to  occur  in  the 
octave,  how  many  in  the  sestet  ?  or  were 
they  to  pervade  both  systems  indiscrimi- 
nately ?  Even  before  Dante  and  Petrarca 
wrote  their  sonnets  it  was  an  accepted 
canon  that  the  octave  lost  its  dignity  if  it 
contained  more  than  two  distinct  rhyme- 
sounds,  or  at  most  three.  In  the  sestet  it 
was  recognised  that  a  greater  freedom  was 
allowable,  if  not  in  the  number  of  rhyme- 
sounds,  at  least  in  their  disposition.  Again, 
Guittone  had  definitely  demonstrated  that 
in  length  each  sonnet-line  should  consist  of 
ten  syllables,  the  decasyllabic  metre  per- 
mitting a  far  greater  sonority  than  the 
octosyllabic ;  and  that  acute  experimen- 
20 


The  Sonnet 

talist  probably  quite  realised  that  continuous 
sonority  and  unbroken  continuity  of  motive 
were  two  of  the  most  essential  characteristics 
of  the  sonnet.     No  one  who  has  any  know- 
ledge of  the  laws  both  of  musical  and  of 
poetical  forms  would  be  surprised  if  it  were 
proved,    as    has    been    asserted,    that    Fra 
Guittone  or  his  predecessors  perceived  and 
acted  in  accordance  with  the  close  analogy 
existing  between  their  chosen  metrical  form 
and  the  musical  system  established  by  Guido 
Bonatti  in  the  eleventh  century.  Throughout 
Fra  Guitt one's  work  it  is  evident  that  he  is 
no  blind  blunderer,  but  a  poet  striving  to 
make  his  vehicle  the  best  possible,  working 
upon  it  with  a  determinate  aim. 
Sv:  In  most  of  his  sonnets  we  find  the  following 
arrangement :  in  the  octave  the  first,  fourth, 
fifth,  and  eighth  lines  rhyme,  and  so  do  the 
second,  third,  sixth,  and^seventh.   By^this  ar- 
rangement the  utmost  attainable  dignity  and 
harmony  is  obtained,  there  being  no  clashing 
of  rhymes,  no  jingle,  but  a  steady  sweeping 
wave-like  movement  entirely  satisfactory  to 
the  ear.   There  have  been  some  fine  sonnets 
written  with  the  introduction   of  a  third 
rhyme-sound  into  the  octave  (the  termina- 
tions of  the  sixth  and  seventh  lines),  and 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  if  this  were 

21 


The  Sonnet 

equally  satisfactory  to  the  ear,  a  still  greater 
and  most  valuable  expansion  would  be 
given  to  the  English  sonnet ;  but  to  the 
sensitive  ear,  especially  sensitive  among 
Italians,  it  is  as  out  of  place  as  some  new 
strain  is  in  a  melody  that  is  already  in 
itself  amply  sufficient,  and  that  loses  in 
effect  by  the  alien  introduction.  This 
variation  never  gained  ground  in  Italy, 
though  in  Spain  it  found  favour  with  some 
of  the  Castilian  sonneteers  as  early  as  the 
beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

It  gained,  instead  of  losing,  in  what 
Theodore  Watts-Dunton  calls  the  soli- 
darity of  the  outflowing  waves  by  its  nominal 
subdivision  into  two  basi,  or  bases,  as  the 
Italians  name  what  we  call  the  quatrains  : 
upon  these  basi  the  poetic  image  could  rest, 
either  rendered  clear  to  the  reader  supported 
on  both,  or  appealing  to  him  by  an  illumi- 
nating gleam  from  one  base  and  then  by  an 
added  light  from  the  other.  The  octave  of 
the  perfect  sonnet,  then,  we  find  to  consist 
of  two  quatrains,  capable  of  divisional 
pause  yet  forming  a  solid  whole  :  in  all, 
eight  lines  following  a  prescribed  rhyme- 
arrangement,  which  may  be  thus  expressed  : 

a  —  b  —  b  —  a  —  a  —  b  —  b  —  a 


The  sestet  in  like  manner  is  subdivided 

22 


The  Sonnet 

equally,  in  this  case  into  sections  of  three 
lines  each  :  these  sections  are  called  the 
tercets.  There  can  be  either  three  rhymes  or 
two,  and  the  variations  thereupon  are 
numerous.  The  Guittonian,  or,  as  it  is 
generally  called,  the  Petrarcan  sestet-type, 
contains  three  distinct  rhyme-sounds,  and 
employs  the  valuable  pause  permitted  by 
the  true  use  of  the  double-tercet ;  but  a 
system  of  two  rhyme-sounds  is,  as  far  as 
"  metrical  emphasis  "  goes,  much  stronger, 
and  any  arrangement  of  the  rhymes  (whether 
two  or  three)  is  permissible,  save  that  of  a 
couplet  at  the  close.  It  is  a  difficult  ques- 
tion to  decide  even  for  one's  self  whether  it 
is  better  for  the  sestet  to  contain  only  two 
rhymes  or  three  :  personally  I  am  inclined 
to  favour  the  restriction  to  two,  on  account 
of  the  great  accession  of  metrical  emphasis 
resulting  to  this  restriction.  The  normal 
type,  however  (the  Petrarcan),  affords  a 
better  opportunity  for  a  half-break  at  the 
end  of  the  first  tercet,  corresponding  to  the 
same  midway  in  the  octave  and  to  the  full 
break  at  the  latter's  close.  It  would  be  a 
mistake  to  dogmatise  upon  the  point,  and 
the  poet  will  probably  instinctively  use  the 
tercets  in  just  correspondence  with  his  emo- 
tional impulse.  The  Italian  masters  recog- 
nised as  the  best  that  division  of  the  sestet 
23 


The  Sonnet 


into  two  distinct  tercets  (which  they  termed 
volte,  or  turnings),  which,  while  not  inter- 
fering with  what  Theodore  Watts-Dunton 
calls  the  ebb-movement  of  the  sestet,  is 
fully  capable  of  throwing  out  two  separate 
lights  in  one  gleam — like  the  azure  hollow 
and  yellow  flame  in  burning  gas. 

The  sestet  of  the  pure  Guittonian  sonnet, 
then,  may  be  expressed  by  the  following 
formula : 

a —  b  —  c:  — a  —  b  —  c 


The  following  are  among  the  more  or  less 
appropriate  variations : 


I 

2 

3* 

4 

5 

6 

7 

8 

9 

10 

II 

12 

13 

H 

15 

16 

17 

18 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 

b 

b 

b 

b 

a 

a 

b 

b 

b 

b 

b 

b 

a 

a 

b 

b 

b 

a 

a 

b 

b 

a 

b 

b 

c 

a 

c 

c 

c 

b 

b 

b 

a 

b 

c 

b 

b 

a 

a 

b 

b 

a 

b 

c 

c 

b 

c 

G 

,c 

c 

c 

c 

a 

b 

a 

a 

b 

b 

a 

a 

a 

b 

b 

c 

a 

C 

c 

b 

c 

a 

c 

c 

b 

b 

a 

a 

b 

b 

c 

c 

a 

a 

b 

a 

b 

c 

b 

c 

b 

c 

1 

•» 

|  cxxix. 

'•* 

'* 

|  cxxiii. 

1 

0 

|  xcviii. 

> 

j  clxxiii. 

•a 

o 

o 

_>' 

j  ccxii. 

|  xxxviii. 

"y, 
* 

1 

|  cxxxiv. 

8 

The  figures  in  the  lower  division  of  this  table 
denote  examples  among  the  sonnets  in  my 
Anthology  of  the  variation  in  question. 

*  Rossetti  used  to  say  that  he  considered  this 
(No.  3)  to  be  the  best  form  of  sestet,  if  it  could  be 
24 


The  Sonnet 

Of  these,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  two  most 
musical — the  least  disturbant  to  the  melodic 
wave — are  the  first  and  third, 

a —  b  —  a —  b  —  a  —  b 
a  —  b  —  b  —  a  —  b  —  a 

The  occurrence  of  a  rhymed  couplet  at  the 
close  of  the  sonnet  is  rare  indeed  in  Italian 
literature  :  I  cannot  recall  a  single  example 
of  it  among  the  classic  masters  of  the  sonnet, 
and  even  in  later  times  I  fancy  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  a  single  good  Italian  example 
worthy  the  name  with  this  termination.  But 
it  does  not  necessarily  follow  that  a  closing 
couplet  is  equally  unpleasant  to  the  ear  in 
English,  for  in  the  latter  practically  all 
sonnets  are  what  the  Italians  call  mute,  that 
is,  the  rhyming  terminals  are  in  one  syllable, 
while  in  the  language  of  Petrarca  and  Dante 
they  are  trisyllabic  and  dissyllabic — a  cir- 
cumstance materially  affecting  our  considera- 
tion of  this  much-debated  point.  Not  only 
are  there  few  good  English  sonnets  with 
dissyllabic  terminals  (I  remember  none  with 
trisyllabic  throughout,  and  do  not  suppose 
there  is  an  example  thereof  to  be  found), 
but  there  are  few  of  any  quality.  In  Mrs. 

achieved    without    any    damage    to    intellectual 
substance. 

25 


The  Sonnet 

Alice  Meynell's  Preludes  there  are  one  or 
two  partially  so  constructed,  e.g.,  A  Day 
to  Come.  But  notwithstanding  the  differ- 
ences in  terminal  structure,  it  is  open  to 
question  whether  the  rhymed  couplet-ending 
be  not  almost  as  disagreeable  to  the  English 
as  to  the  Italian  ear,  unless  the  form  be 
that  of  the  so-called  Shakespearean  sonnet. 
One  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  the  sonnet  is 
the  expectancy  of  the  closing  portion,  and 
when  the  ear  has  become  attuned  to  the 
sustained  flow  of  the  normal  octave  and  also 
of  the  opening  lines  of  the  sestet,  the  couplet 
is  apt  to  come  upon  one  with  an  unexpected 
jar,  as  if  some  one  had  opened  and  banged-to 
a  door  while  the  musician  was  letting  the  last 
harmonious  chords  thrill  under  his  touch. 
There  has  been  a  good  deal  written  on  this 
point,  and  Hall  Caine  and  others  have 
succinctly  pointed  out  their  reasons  for 
strongly  objecting  to  it.  It  is,  moreover, 
perhaps  the  last  point  on  which  sonneteers 
themselves  will  agree.  Writing  elsewhere 
on  this  subject,  I  stated  that  "  if  the  arrange- 
ment of  lines  suits  the  emotion,  I  am  not 
offended  by  a  concluding  rhymed  couplet, 
or  by  the  quatrains  used  to  such  purpose 
by  Shakespeare,  Dray  ton,  and  Tennyson- 
Turner  " ;  but  then,  undoubtedly,  only 
26 


The  Sonnet 

one  side  of  the  question  was  clear  to  me. 
Continuous  study  of  the  sonnet  has  con- 
vinced me  that,  while  many  English  sonnets 
of  the  Guittonian  type,  even  by  good  writers, 
are  markedly  weakened  by  rhymed  couplet- 
endings,  in  the  Shakespearean  form  the 
closure  in  question  is  not  only  not  objection- 
able, but  is  absolutely  as  much  the  right 
thing  as  the  octave  of  two  rhymes  is  for 
the  Petrarcan  sonnet.  Most  writers  on  the 
sonnet  either  state  generally  that  they 
object  or  that  they  do  not  object  to  the 
rhymed  couplets  at  the  close  :  thus  one 
anonymous  critic  writes  that  he  fails  "  to 
see  wherein  a  couplet  ending  is  not  as  musical 
as  any  other  arrangement,  that  indeed  it 
is  demonstratively  so  by  the  citation  of 
some  of  the  most  striking  sonnets  in  our 
language  " — while,  on  the  other  hand,  Hall 
Caine  refers  to  the  closure  in  question  as 
being  as  offensive  to  his  ear  as  the  couplets 
at  the  ends  of  scenes  and  acts  in  some 
Shakespearean  plays.  It  seems  to  me  now 
that  there  are,  broadly  speaking,  but  two 
normal  types  in  English  of  sonnet-struc- 
tures— the  Petrarcan  and  the  Shakespearean : 
whenever  a  motive  is  cast  in  the  mould  of 
the  former  a  rhymed  couplet  ending  is, 
to  my  own  ear  at  least,  quite  out  of 
27 


The  Sonnet 

place ;  whenever  it  is  embodied  in  the 
latter  the  final  couplet  is  eminently  satis- 
factory. 

Before,  however,  considering  the  five  chief 
types  (primarily,  two),  I  may  finish  my 
general  remarks  on  the  early  history  of  the 
sonnet. 

That  by  the  fourteenth  century  the  mature 
sonnet  was  fully  understood  and  recognised 
is  evident  from  the  facts  (set  forth  by  Mr. 
Tomlinson)  that  of  the  forty  examples 
attributed  (one  or  two  of  them  somewhat 
doubtfully)  to  Dante,  thirty-three  belong 
to  the  strict  Guittonian  type  ;  of  the  three 
hundred  and  seventeen  produced  throughout 
a  long  period  by  Petrarca,  not  one  has  more 
than  two  rhymes  in  the  octave,  and  only 
fifteen  have  any  variations  from  the  normal 
type  (eleven  in  alternate  rhymes,  and  four 
with  the  first,  third,  sixth,  and  eighth  lines 
harmonising)  ;  while  two  hundred  and 
ninety  agree  in  having  nothing  more  than  a 
double  rhyme  both  in  the  major  and  in  the 
minor  system — one  hundred  and  sixteen 
belonging  to  the  pure  Guittonian  type,  one 
hundred  and  seven  with  the  tercets  in  two 
alternate  rhymes  (Type  I  in  foregoing  table), 
and  sixty-seven  with  three  rhyme-sounds, 
arranged  as  in  Type  7  in  foregoing  table. 
28 


The  Sonnet 

Again,  of  the  eighty  sonnets  of  Michael 
Angelo,  seven-eighths  are  in  the  normal 
type.  It  is  thus  evident  that,  at  a  period 
when  the  Italian  ear  was  specially  keen  to 
all  harmonious  effects,  the  verdict  of  the 
masters  in  this  species  of  poetic  composition 
was  given  in  favour  of  two  sonnet- formations 
— the  Guittonian  structure  as  to  the  octave, 
and  the  co-relative  arrangement  of  the 
sestet  a — b — c — a — b — c,  or  a — b — a — b 
— a — b,  with  a  preference  for  the  former. 
Another  variation  susceptible  of  very  beau- 
tiful effect  is  that  of  Type  9  (ante),  but 
though  it  can  most  appropriately  be  used 
when  exceptional  tenderness,  sweetness,  or 
special  impressiveness  is  sought  after,  it 
does  not  seem  to  have  found  much  favour. 
I  may  quote  here  in  exemplification  of  it 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  Italian 
sonnets.  It  is  one  of  Dante's,  and  is  filled 
with  the  breath  of  music  as  a  pine-tree  with 
the  cadences  of  the  wind — the  close  being 
supremely  exquisite.  It  will  also  afford  to 
those  who  are  unacquainted  with  Italian 
an  idea  of  the  essential  difference  between 
the  trisyllabic  and  dissyllabic  terminals  of 
the  Southern  and  the  one-syllable  or  "  mute  " 
endings  of  the  English  sonnet,  and  at  the 
same  time  serve  to  illustrate  what  has  been 
29 


The  Sonnet 

already  said  concerning  the  pauses  at  the 
quatrains  and  tercets  : 

Tanto  gentile,  e  tanto  onesta  pare 

La  donna  mia,  quand'  ella  altrui  saluta, 
Ch'  ogni  lingua  divien  tremando  muta, 
E  gli  occhi  non  I'ardiscon  di  guardare. 

Ella  sen  va,  sentendosi  laudare, 
Umilimente  d'  onesta  vestuta  ; 
E  par  che  sia  una  cosa  venuta 
Di  cielo  in  terra  a  miracol  mostrare. 

Mostrasi  si  piacente  a  chi  la  mira, 

Che  da  per  gli  occhi  una  dolcezza  al  core, 
Che'ntender  non  la  pub  chi  non  la  pruova. 

E  par,  che  dalla  sua  labbia  si  mova, 
Uno  spirito  soave,  pien  d'  amove, 
Che  va  dicendo  all'  anima  :  sospira. 

I  need  not  here  enter  into  detail  concerning 
all  the  variations  that  have  been  made  upon 
the  normal  type  ;  in  Italian  these  are  very 
numerous,  as  also  in  French.  In  Germany 
the  model  type  (where,  by-the-by,  the 
sonnet  was  first  known  by  the  name  of 
Klang-gedicht,  a  very  matter-of-fact  way  of 
rendering  sonetto  in  its  poetic  sense  !)  has 
always  been  the  Petrarcan,  as  exemplified 
in  the  flawless  statuesque  sonnets  of  Platen. 
The  following  six  Italian  variations  repre- 
30 


The  Sonnet 

sent  those  most  worthy  of  notice  :  (i)  Versi 
sdruccioli,  twelve-syllabled  lines,  i.e.  (Leigh 
Hunt],  slippery  or  sliding  verses,  so  called  on 
account  of  their  terminating  in  dactyls — 
tene're' — Vene're'.  (2)  Caudated,  or  Tailed 
Sonnets — i.e.,  sonnets  to  which  as  it  were 
an  unexpected  augmentation  of  two  or 
five  or  more  lines  is  made  :  an  English 
example  of  which  will  be  found  in  any 
edition  of  Milton's  works,  under  the  title, 
On  the  New  Forcers  of  Conscience.  (3) 
Mute  Sonnets  :  on  one-syllable  terminals, 
but  generally  used  only  for  satirical  and 
humorous  purposes — in  the  same  way  as  we, 
contrariwise,  select  dissyllabic  terminals  as 
best  suited  for  badinage.  (4)  Linked,  or 
Interlaced  Sonnets,  corresponding  to  the 
Spenserian  form,  which  will  be  formulated 
shortly.  (5)  The  Continuous  or  Iterating 
Sonnet,  on  one  rhyme  throughout,  and  (6) 
the  same,  on  two  rhymes  throughout. 
French  poets  (who,  speaking  generally,  are 
seen  to  less  advantage  in  the  sonnet  than 
in  any  other  poetic  vehicle)  have  delighted 
in  much  experimentalising  :  their  only  com- 
mendable deviation,  one  commonly  made,  is 
a  commencement  of  the  sestet  with  a  rhymed 
couplet  (a  mould  into  which  Mr.  Swinburne 
is  fond  of  casting  his  impulsive  speech) — 


The  Sonnet 

but  their  octosyllabic  and  dialogue  sonnets, 
and  other  divergencies,  are  nothing  more 
than  experiments,  more  or  less  interesting 
and  able.  The  paring-down  system  has 
reached  its  extreme  level  in  the  following 
clever  piece  of  trifling  byComtePaul  deResse- 
guier — a  "  sonnet  "  of  single-syllable  lines  : 

EPITAPHE  D'UNE  JEUNE  FILLE 

Fort 
Belle. 
Elle 
Dort  / 

Sort 
Frele 
Quelle 
Mort  f 

Rose 
Close- 
La 

Brise 

L'a 

Prise. 

Among  English  sonnets  the  chief  varia- 
tions are  the  rhymed-couplet  ending  added 
to  the  preceding  twelve-line  cast  in  the  regu- 
lar form  :  the  sonnet  ending  with  an  Alex- 
andrine :  the  sonnet  with  an  Alexandrine 
closing  both  octave  and  sestet :  the  assonantal 
sonnet,  i.e.,  a  sonnet  without  rhymes,  but 
32 


The  Sonnet 

with  the  vowel  sounds  of  the  words  so  arranged 
as  to  produce  a  distinctly  harmonious  effect 
almost  identical  with  that  of  rhyme-music. 
Of  this  form  Mr.  Wilfred  Blunt,  among 
others,  has  given  a  good  example  in  his 
Love-Sonnets  of  Proteus  :  the  octosyllabic 
sonnets  (mere  experiments),  written  by 
E.  Cracroft  Lefroy  and  Samuel  Wadding- 
ton  and  others  :  and  the  sonnet  constructed 
on  two  rhyme-sounds  throughout.  Among 
the  last-named  I  may  mention  William 
Bell  Scott's  Garland  for  Advancing  Years, 
Edmund  Gosse's  Pipe-Player,  and  Lord 
Hanmer's  Winter.  The  latter  I  may  quote 
as  a  fine  but  little-known  example  of  this 
experimental  variation : 

WINTER 

To  the  short  days,  and  the  great  vault  of  shade, 
The  whitener  of  the  hills,  we  come — alas, 
There  is  no  colour  in  the  faded  grass, 

Save  the  thick  frost  on  its  hoar  stems  arrayed. 

Cold  is  it  :  as  a  melancholy  maid, 

The  latest  of  the  seasons  now  doth  pass, 
With  a  dead  garland,  in  her  icy  glass 

Setting  its  spikes  about  her  crisped  braid. 

The  streams  shall  breathe,  along  the  orchards  laid, 
In  the  soft  spring-time ;  and  the  frozen  mass 
Melt  from  the  snowdrift ;   flowerets  where  it  was 

Shoot  up — the  cuckoo  shall  delight  the  glade  ; 
But  to  new  glooms  through  some  obscure  crevasse 

She  will  have  past — that  melancholy  maid. 

n  33  c 


The  Sonnet 

This  interesting  and  poetic  experiment 
would  have  been  still  better  but  for  the 
musical  flaw  in  the  first  line  (days — shade) 
and  those  in  the  thirteenth  -  fourteenth 
(crevasse — past),  though  of  course  in  this 
instance  the  repetition  of  maid  as  a  terminal 
is  intentional,  and  is  a  metrical  gain  rather 
than  a  flaw.  Dialogue-sonnets  are  not  an 
English  variation  :  I  am  aware  of  very  few 
in  our  language, — the  earliest  which  I  have 
met  with  is  that  written  by  Alexander, 
Earl  of  Stirling  (1580-1640).  There  are  one 
or  two  sonnets  in  French  with  octaves  where 
the  first  three  lines  rhyme,  and  therewith 
also  the  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  :  and  one, 
in  English,  The  Chorister,  by  J.  A.  Symonds. 

We  may  now  consider  the  five  standard 
formal  types,  and  thereby  close  the  first 
section  of  this  Introduction,  that  on  "  Sonnet- 
structure." 

These  formal  types  are :  (i)  The  Petrarcan ; 
(2)  the  Spenserian ;  (3)  the  Shakespearean  ; 
(4)  the  Miltonic ;  and  (5)  the  Contem- 
porary. 

The  Guittonian,  or  Petrarcan,  sonnet  has 
already  been  explained  from  the  structural 
point  of  view,  but  its  formal  characteristics 
may  be  summarised  once  more,  (i)  It,  like 
all  sonnets,  must  primarily  consist  of  four- 

34 


The  Sonnet 

teen  decasyllabic  lines.  (2)  It  must  be  made 
up  of  a  major  and  minor  system  :  the  major 
system  consisting  of  eight  lines,  or  two 
quatrains,  to  be  known  as  the  octave  ;  the 
minor,  consisting  of  six  lines,  or  two  tercets, 
to  be  known  as  the  sestet.  (3)  Two  rhyme- 
sounds  only  must  pervade  the  octave,  and 
their  arrangement  (nominally  arbitrary,  but 
in  reality  based  on  an  ascertainable  melodic 
law)  must  be  so  that  the  first,  fourth,  fifth, 
and  eighth  terminals  rhyme,  while  the 
second,  third,  sixth,  and  seventh  do  so  also 
on  a  different  note.  (4)  What  generally  is 
looked  upon  as  completing  the  normal  type 
is  a  sestet  with  the  tercet  divisions  clearly 
marked,  and  employing  three  rhyme-sounds, 
the  co-relatives  being  the  terminals  of  lines  I 
and  4,  2  and  5,  3  and  6. 

The  first  English  sonnets  were  composed 
by  Sir  Thomas  Wyat  (1503-1542),  and 
Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  (c.  1517- 
1547)  ;  and  the  first  appearance  of  any  in 
book  form  was  in  the  rare  publication  briefly 
known  as  Tottel's  Miscellany,  whose  full  title 
is  Songs  and  Sonettes  written  by  the  ryght 
honourable  lorde  Henry  Howard  late  earle  oj 
Surrey,  and  other.  These  accomplished  young 
noblemen  had  resided  in  Italy,  and,  them- 
selves delighting  in  Italian  poetic  literature 
35 


The  Sonnet 

— especially  Petrarca's  work — hastened,  on 
their  return  to  their  own  country,  to  accli- 
matise the  new  poetic  vehicle  which  had 
become  so  famous  in  the  hands  of  two  of 
Italy's  greatest  writers.  Their  efforts,  with  a 
new  and  difficult  medium  and  a  language 
which  was  still  only  approaching  the  state  in 
which  Spenser  and  Marlowe  and  Shakespeare 
found  it,  were  only  very  partially  successful, 
and,  as  we  now  know,  their  sonnets  owed 
most  of  what  was  excellent  in  them  to  Italian 
sources.    The  remarkable  thing  about  them 
is  that  they  all  end  with  rhymed  couplets, 
an  arrangement  distinctly  opposed  to  any 
with  which  they  were  acquainted  in  another 
language.     On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be 
noted  (this  point  should  be  remembered  a 
little  later  when  we  come  to  discuss  Hall 
Caine's  theory)  that  Wyat's  are  otherwise 
mostly  on  the  Italian  model.     Surrey,  again, 
evidently  found   his   task  over-difficult   of 
satisfactory  performance,  and  so  constantly 
experimented  with  a  fourteen-line  sonnet- 
mould — like  a  musician  who,  arriving  in  his 
own  land,  finds  his  countrymen's  ears  not 
easily  attuned  to  the  melodies  of  the  new 
instrument  he  brings  with  him  from  abroad, 
and  so  tries  again  and  again  to  find  some  way 
of  making  his  novel  mandolin-  or  lute-sounds 
36 


The  Sonnet 

attractive  to  ears  accustomed  to  the  harsher 
strains  of  fife  or  bagpipe.  Thus  we  find 
him  composing  on  the  two-rhyme-throughout 
system  ;  linking  the  three  elegiac  quatrains 
and  a  couplet,  and  otherwise  feeling  his 
way — evidently  coming  ultimately  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  three  quatrains  and  the 
couplet  constituted  the  form  best  suited  to 
the  English  language.  This  may  concisely 
be  set  forth  in  the  following  formula  : 

a — b — a — b  c — d — c — d  e — f — e — f  g — g 

A  much  more  original  and  more  potent 
poetic  nature  next  endeavoured  to  find  meet 
expression  in  the  sonnet.  Spenser,  that  great 
metricist  and  genuine  poet,  notwithstanding 
all  his  power  in  verse,  was  unable  to  accli- 
matise the  new  vehicle,  the  importance  and 
beauty  of  which  he  undoubtedly  fully  recog- 
nised. Having  tried  the  effect  of  a  fourteen- 
line  poem  in  well-modulated  blank  verse,  he 
found  that  he  was  dissatisfied  with  the 
result ;  equally  dissatisfied  was  he  with  the 
quatrains-and-couplet  mould  of  Wyat  and 
Surrey ;  and  so  at  last,  after  continuous 
experiments,  he  produced  a  modification  of 
both  the  English  and  the  Italian  form, 
retaining  something  of  the  rhyme-iteration 
of  the  latter  along  with  the  couplet-ending 
37 


The  Sonnet 

of  the  former  ;  or  perhaps  he  simply  adopted 
this  structure  from  a  similar  Italian  experi- 
ment, discerning  through  translation  its 
seeming  appropriateness.  That  he  con- 
sidered this  the  best  possible  mould  of  the 
sonnet  for  the  English  poet  is  evident  from 
the  fact  that  in  this  structure  he  composed 
his  famous  love  sonnets,  the  Amoretti.  The 
Spenserian  sonnet  may  be  regarded  as  repre- 
senting that  transitional  stage  of  develop- 
ment which  a  tropical  plant  experiences 
when  introduced  into  a  temperate  clime. 
In  this  case  the  actual  graft  proved  short- 
lived, but  the  lesson  was  not  lost  upon 
cultivators,  in  whose  hands  manifold  seed 
lay  ready  for  germination.  Spenser's  method 
was  to  interlace  the  quatrains  by  using  the 
last  rhyme-sound  of  each  as  the  keynote  of 
the  next — 62,  for  example,  if  I  may  use  a 
musical  comparison,  constituting  the  domi- 
nant of  63  and  65,  as  of  course  c2  of  c3  and  c5 
— and  then  to  clinch  those  by  an  independent 
rhyme-couplet.  It  will  more  easily  be  under- 
stood by  this  formula  : 

a — b — a — b 
b — c — b— ^c 
c — d — c — d 


The  Sonnet 

But  this  form  pleased  the  ear  neither  of  his 
contemporaries  nor  of  his  successors  :  it  was 
suited  for  gentle  tenderness,  for  a  lover's  half- 
assumed  languor — but  in  it  neither  Dante  on 
the  one  hand  nor  Shakespeare  nor  Milton 
on  the  other  would  have  found  that  rhyth- 
mical freedom,  or  rather  that  amplitude  in 
confinement,  which  they  obtained  in  the 
structures  they  adopted.  After  Spenser 
there  set  in  the  flood  of  Elizabethan  son- 
neteering, which  culminated  in  the  Shake- 
spearean sonnets.  Before  mentioning  Shake- 
speare and  his  immediate  forerunners, 
however,  an  interesting  feature  should  be 
noted.  This  is  a  fine  sonnet  foreshadowing 
what  is  now  called  the  Miltonic  mould,  by 
that  great  Englishman  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  : 
though  structurally  of  the  Surrey  type, 
it  has  the  Miltonic  characteristic  of  un- 
broken continuity  between  octave  and 
sestet.  It  may  be  added  that  the  author 
of  Paradise  Lost  modelled  his  well-known 
lines  to  his  dead  wife  on  this  sonnet  by 
Raleigh. 

What  is  styled  the  Shakespearean  sonnet 
is  so  called  only  out  of  deference  to  the  great 
poet  who  made  such  noble  use  of  it — in  the 
same  way  as  Petrarca  is  accredited  with 
the  structural  form  bearing  his  name.  As 
39 


The  Sonnet 

"  the  sweete  laureate  of  Italic  "  had  prede- 
cessors in  Guittone  d'Arezzo  and  Amalricchi, 
so  Shakespeare  found  that  the  English 
sonnet — as  it  should  be  called — having  been 
inefficiently  handled  by  Surrey,  discarded 
by  Spenser,  taken  up  and  beautified  by 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  (who  seemed  unable  to 
definitely  decide  as  to  what  form  to  adopt), 
was  at  last  made  thoroughly  ready  for  his 
use  by  Daniel  and  Dray  ton.  To  show  how 
the  so-called  Shakespearean  sonnet  was  led 
up  to,  and  how  it  actually  existed  in  its 
maturity  prior  to  the  splendid  poems  of  the 
young  player-poet,  a  sonnet  by  each  of  these 
admirable  writers  may  be  quoted.  But 
previous  thereto  it  may  again  be  made  clear 
that  the  English  or  Shakespearean  sonnet  is 
distinctly  different  from  the  normal  Italian 
type.  Unlike  the  latter,  it  is  not  divided  into 
two  systems — though  a  pause  corresponding 
to  that  enforced  by  the  separation  of  octave 
and  sestet  is  very  frequently  observed. 
Instead  of  having  octave  and  sestet,  the 
Shakespearean  sonnet  is  made  up  of  four 
elegiac  quatrains  clinched  by  a  rhymed 
couplet  with  a  new  sound ;  and,  generally, 
it  presents  the  motive  as  it  were  in  a  trans- 
parent sphere,  instead  of  as  a  cameo  with 
two  sides.  As  regards  swiftness  of  motion, 
40 


The  Sonnet 

its  gain  upon  the  Spenserian,  to  which  it  is 
so  closely  allied,  is  great. 

Referring,  in  a  chapter  dealing  with  the 
sonnets  of  Rossetti,  to  the  two  archetypal 
forms,  I  wrote  some  four  years  ago  that 
"  the  Shakespearean  sonnet  is  like  a  red- 
hot  bar  being  moulded  upon  a  forge,  till — 
in  the  closing  couplet — it  receives  the  final 
clinching  blow  from  the  heavy  hammer  : 
while  the  Petrarcan,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
like  a  wind  gathering  in  volume  and  dying 
away  again  immediately  on  attaining  a 
culminating  force."  The  anterior  simile  is 
the  happier  ;  for  the  second  I  should  now 
be  inclined  to  substitute :  the  Petrarcan 
sonnet  is  like  an  oratorio,  where  the  musical 
divisions  are  distinct,  and  where  the  close 
is  a  grand  swell,  the  culmination  of  the  fore- 
going harmonies.  Petrarca  himself,  in  one 
of  his  numerous  marginalia  to  his  sonnets, 
remarks  that  the  end  should  invariably  be 
more  harmonious  than  the  beginning,  i.e., 
should  be  dominantly  borne-in  upon  the 
reader. 

In  selecting  the  Sleep  of  Samuel  Daniel, 
I  do  so  not  because  it  is  in  the  true  Shake- 
spearean type  (as  in  Dray  ton's) — though  he 
wrote  mostly  in  the  latter  mould — but 
because  in  this  example  is  shown  the  final 


The  Sonnet 

transition  from  an  octave  of  two  rhymes  to 
the  English  archetype  as  already  formu- 
lated. It  must  not  be  overlooked,  however, 
that  he  used  and  used  well  the  Shake- 
spearean form  : 

TO  SLEEP 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light ; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  return, 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth  ; 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow  ; 
Never  let  rising  Sun  approve  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow  ; 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

The  sonnet  by  Michael  Drayton  which  I 
shall  next  quote  is  not  only  the  finest  of 
Elizabethan  sonnets  by  writers  other  than 
Shakespeare,  but  in  condensed  passion  is 
equalled  by  only  one  or  two  of  those  of  the 
great  master,  and  is  surpassed  by  none, 
either  of  his  or  of  any  later  poet : 


The  Sonnet 


A  PARTING 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  part, — 
Nay,  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free  : 
Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath, 
When,  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless  lies, 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
A  nd  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, — 

Now,  ifthou  would' st,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might' st  him  yet  recover  ! 

But  it  was  in  Shakespeare's  hands  that 
this  form  of  sonnet  first  became  immutably 
established  in  our  literature.  These  mag- 
nificent poems — magnificent  notwithstanding 
many  minor  flaws — must  always  hold  their 
high  place,  not  only  as  the  personal  record 
of  the  greatest  of  our  poets,  but  for  the  sake 
of  their  own  consummate  beauty  and  intel- 
lectual force.  I  may  repeat  the  words  I 
wrote  in  the  Introductory  Essay  to  my 
edition  of  his  Songs  and  Sonnets :  "It  is 
because  this  great  master  over  the  passions 
and  follies  and  heroisms  of  man  has  at  least 
once  dropped  the  veil  of  impersonality  that 
we  are  so  fascinated  by  the  Sonnets.  Here 
43 


The  Sonnet 

the  musician  who  has  otherwise  played  for 
all  generations  of  humanity,  pipes  a  solitary 
tune  of  his  own  life,  its  love,  its  devotion,  its 
fervour,  its  prophetic  exaltation,  its  passion, 
its  despair,  its  exceeding  bitterness.  Veritably 
we  are  here  face  to  face  with  '  a  splendour 
amid  glooms/  ' 

Rossetti,  the  greatest  master  of  sonnet- 
music  posterior  to  the  "  starre  of  poets," 
declared  while  expressing  his  unbounded 
admiration  for  Shakespeare's  sonnets  that 
' '  conception  — fundamental  brain  -  work — is 
what  makes  the  difference  in  all  art.  ...  A 
Shakespearean  sonnet  is  better  than  the 
most  perfect  in  form  because  Shakespeare 
wrote  it."  Again,  the  opinion  of  so  acute  a 
critic  and  genuine  a  poet  as  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton  may  here  be  appropriately  quoted  : 
"  The  quest  of  the  Shakespearean  form  is 
not,"  he  writes  in  his  article  on  The  Sonnet 
in  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  "  like  that 
of  the  sonnet  of  octave  and  sestet  sonority, 
and,  so  to  speak,  metrical  counterpoint, 
but  sweetness ;  and  the  sweetest  of  all 
possible  arrangements  in  English  versifica- 
tion is  a  succession  of  decasyllabic  quatrains 
in  alternate  rhymes  knit  together,  and 
clinched  by  a  couplet — a  couplet  coming 
not  too  far  from  the  initial  verse,  so  as  to  lose 
44 


The  Sonnet 

its  binding  power,  and  yet  not  so  near  the 
initial  verse  that  the  ring  of  epigram  disturbs 
'  the  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out '  of 
this  movement,  but  sufficiently  near  to  shed 
its  influence  over  the  poem  back  to  the  initial 
verse."  This  is  admirably  expressed,  and 
true  so  far  as  it  goes  ;  but  to  a  far  wider 
scope  than  "  sweetness  "  does  the  Shake- 
spearean sonnet  reach.  Having  already 
given  a  good  example  of  sonnets  cast  in 
this  mould,  it  is  not  necessary  to  quote 
another  by  the  chief  master  of  the  English 
sonnet ;  still  I  may  give  one  of  the  latter's 
greatest,  perhaps  the  greatest  of  Shake- 
speare's or  any  other,  which  will  not  only 
serve  as  a  supreme  example  of  the  type,  but 
will  demonstrate  a  capability  of  impressive- 
ness  unsurpassed  by  any  sonnet  of  Dante  or 
Milton  : 

The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 
Is  lust  in  action  ;  and  till  action,  lust 
Is  perjured,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 
Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust, 
Enjoy'd  no  sooner  but  despised  straight, 
Past  reason  hunted,  and  no  sooner  had 
Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow'd  bait 
On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad  ; 
Mad  in  pursuit  and  in  possession  so  ; 
Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme  ; 
A  bliss  in  proof,  and  proved,  a  very  woe  ; 
Before,  a  joy  proposed ;  behind,  a  dream, 

45 


The  Sonnet 

All  this  the  world  well  knows  ;  yet  none  knows 

well 
To  shun  the    heaven    that  leads  men  to  this 

hell. 

Between  the  sonnets  of  Shakespeare  and 
those  of  Milton  there  is  not  much  to 
chronicle  concerning  the  history  of  the 
sonnet.  Its  chief  intermediate  composer 
was  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  a  graceful 
poet,  but  assuredly  not  the  master  he  has 
again  and  again  been  represented  to  be. 
His  essential  weakness  may  be  seen  in  his 
inability  to  adopt  any  pure  mould  :  his 
sonnets  may  either  be  regarded  as  English 
bastards  of  Italian  parentage,  or  as  Italian 
refugees  disguised  in  a  semi-insular  costume. 
Hitherto,  and  this  notwithstanding  several 
noble  examples  by  Shakespeare  of  a  more 
impersonal  scope,  most  English  sonnets  were 
amatory — amatory  to  such  an  extent  indeed 
that  "  sugred  sonettes  "  became  as  much  the 
stereotyped  medium  of  lovers'  prayers  and 
plaints  as  was  the  Border-ballad  that  of  the 
virile  energies  of  a  semi-civilised  people. 
In  this  state  they  still  were  after  the  close 
of  the  Elizabethan  period — indeed  they 
were,  with  the  minor  poets,  fast  degenerat- 
ing into  florid  and  insipid  imbecilities.  But 
when  Milton  recognised  the  form  as  one 
46 


The  Sonnet 

well  suited  even  for  the  voice  which  was  in 
due  time  to  chant  the  rebellion  of  the  Prince 
of  Evil,  he  took  it  up  to  regenerate  it.  In 
his  hands  it  "  became  a  trumpet."  Recog- 
nising the  rhythmical  beauty  of  the  normal 
Italian  type,  he  adopted  its  rhyme-arrange- 
ment, discarding  both  the  English  sonnet 
and  all  bastard  intermediates  ;  but,  either 
from  imperfect  acquaintance  with  or  under- 
standing of  the  Italian  archetype  (which 
seems  improbable,  considering  the  circum- 
stances of  his  life  and  the  breadth  of  his 
culture),  or  out  of  definite  intention,  he  did 
not  regard  as  essential  or  appropriate  the 
break  in  the  melody  between  octave  and 
sestet.  And  here,  according  to  Mark 
Pattison,  he  "  missed  the  very  end  and  aim 
of  the  Petrarcan  scheme."  He  considered — 
so  we  may  infer — that  the  English  sonnet 
should  be  like  a  revolving  sphere,  every 
portion  becoming  continuously  visible,  with 
no  break  in  the  continuity  of  thought  or 
expression  anywhere  apparent.  Sir  Henry 
Taylor  describes  this  characteristic  well  as 
the  absence  of  point  in  the  evolution  of  the 
idea.  I  need  not  quote  one  of  these  "  soul- 
animating  strains,"  as  Wordsworth  sympa- 
thetically styled  Milton's  sonnets,  so  familiar 
as  they  are  to  all  lovers  of  English  poetry ; 
47 


The  Sonnet 

but  I  may  point  to  an  admirable  sonnet  in 
the  Miltonic  mould  in  which  readers  may 
examine  with  advantage — viz.,  the  impres- 
sive Democrary  Downtrodden  of  William 
Michael  Rossetti. 

A  second  reference  may  here  appropriately 
be  made  to  Hall  Caine's  claim  for  the  inherent 
independence  of  the  English  sonnet.  This 
writer  is  so  accomplished  and  generally  so 
acute  a  critic  that  I  differ  from  him  only 
after  the  most  careful  consideration  of  his 
arguments.  To  the  independent  existence 
of  the  English  sonnet  as  such  I  am,  of  course, 
as  will  have  been  seen,  no  opponent ;  but 
there  is  a  difference  between  a  poetic  form 
being  national  and  its  being  indigenous. 
An  English  skate,  for  example,  is  at  once 
recognisable  from  that  of  any  other  Northern 
country,  has,  in  a  word,  the  seal  of  nationality 
impressed  on  its  familiar  aspect :  but  every 
one  knows  that  originally  that  delightful 
means  towards  "  ice-flight "  came  to  us 
from  the  Dutch,  and  was  not  the  invention 
of  our  countrymen.  So  is  it  with  the  national 
sonnet.  Wyat  and  Surrey  did  not  invent 
the  English  form  of  sonnet,  they  introduced 
it  from  Italy  ;  Spenser  played  with  and 
altered  it ;  Shakespeare  as  it  were  translated 
it  into  our  literature  ;  Drummond — half 
48 


The  Sonnet 

Italian,  half  English,  critically  regarded — 
used  it  variously ;  the  Elizabethan  son- 
neteers piped  through  it  their  real  or  imagi- 
nary amatory  woes ;  and  at  last  came  Milton } 
and  made  it  shine  newly,  as  if  he  had  cut  his 
diamond  in  such  a  way  that  only  one 
luminous  light  were  visible  to  us.  The 
Shakespearean  or  English  sonnet  is  no 
bastard  form,  nor  is  the  Miltonic  ;  each  is 
derivative,  one  more  so  than  the  other  to 
all  appearance, — and  the  only  bastard  forms 
are  those  which  do  not  belong  to  the  pure 
types ;  those  sonnets,  for  instance,  which 
have  the  octave  regular  and  a  sestet  con- 
sisting of  a  quatrain  and  a  couplet,  or  those 
which,  like  the  Love-Sonnets  of  Proteus,  are 
irregular  throughout.  Hall  Caine  was  de- 
sirous to  remove  the  charge  of  illegitimacy 
against  the  English  sonnet  :  where  I  differ 
from  him  is  only  that  I  can  see  no  real 
basis  for  bringing  up  the  charge  against  the 
pure  types  at  all. 

What  is  known  as  the  Contemporary,  and 
sometimes  as  the  Natural,  sonnet  was  first 
formulated  by  Theodore  Watts-Dunton. 
With  the  keen  insight  that  characterises 
his  critical  work  and  no  less  gives  point 
to  his  imaginative  faculty,  this  writer 
recognised  not  only  the  absolute  metrical 

ii  49  D 


The  Sonnet 

beauty  of  the  Petrarcan  type,  but  also 
that  it  was  based  on  a  deep  melodic  law, 
the  law  which  may  be  observed  in  the 
flow  and  ebb  of  a  wave  ;  and,  indeed,  the 
sonnet  in  question  was  composed  at  a 
little  seaside  village  in  Kent,  while  the  writer 
and  a  friend  were  basking  on  the  shore.  It 
was  he  who  first  explained  the  reason  why 
the  separate  and  complete  solidarity  of  the 
octave  was  so  essential  to  perfect  harmony, 
finding  in  this  metrical  arrangement  nothing 
less  than  the  action  of  the  same  law  that 
is  manifested  in  the  inflowing  wave  solidly 
gathering  into  curving  volume,  culminating 
in  one  great  pause,  and  then  sweeping 
out  again  from  the  shore.  This  is  not  only 
a  fine  conception,  but  it  was  accepted  at 
once  by  Rossetti,  J.  A.  Symonds,  Mark 
Pattison,  Hall  Caine,  Karl  Lentzner  (in  his 
treatise  on  the  sonnet),  and  by  others 
who  have  given  special  attention  to  this 
form  of  verse.  "  The  striking  meta- 
phorical symbol,"  says  J.  A.  Symonds, 
"  drawn  by  Mr.  Theodore  Watts  from  the 
observation  of  the  swelling  and  declining 
wave  can  even,  in  some  examples,  be  applied 
to  sonnets  on  the  Shakespearean  model ;  for, 
as  a  wave  may  fall  gradually  or  abruptly, 
so  the  sonnet  may  sink  with  stately  volume 
50 


The  Sonnet 

or  with  precipitate  subsidence  to  its  close." 
In  France  the  revival  of  the  sonnet  has  been 
only  less  marked  than  in  England,  and  among 
French  poets  it  is  also  now  recognised  as 
indubitable  that  the  octave  must  be  in  the 
normal  mould,  and  that  the  sestet  should 
have  no  more  doubtful  variation  than  a 
commencing  couplet.  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton's  theory  naturally  excited  much 
comment ;  and  his  sonnet  on  the  Sonnet, 
wherein  that  theory  was  first  formulated, 
may  be  appropriately  quoted  here. 

THE  SONNET'S  VOICE 

(A    METRICAL    LESSON    BY    THE    SEASHORE) 

Yon  silvery  billows  breaking  on  the  beach 
Fall  back  in  foam  beneath  the  star-shine  clear, 
The  while  my  rhymes  are  murmuring  in  your  ear 

A  restless  lore  like  that  the  billows  teach  ; 

For  on  these  sonnet-waves  my  soul  would  reach 
From  its  own  depths,  and  rest  within  you,  dear, 
As,  through  the  billowy  voices  yearning  here 

Great  nature  strives  to  find  a  human  speech. 

A  sonnet  is  a  wave  of  melody  : 

From  heaving  waters  of  the  impassioned  soul 

A  billow  of  tidal  music  one  and  whole 
Flows  in  the  "  octave  "  ;  then  returning  free, 

Its  ebbing  surges  in  the  "  sestet  "  roll 
Back  to  the  deeps  of  Life's  tumultuous  sea. 

At  the  same  time  he  is  no  mere  formalist, 
and  has  himself   expressed  his   conviction 


The  Sonnet 

(both  in  the  Athenceum  and  in  the  Encyclo- 
pedia Britannica)  that  the  same  form  is 
not  always  the  best  for  every  subject.  I, 
for  my  part,  think  that,  broadly  speaking, 
the  Contemporary  Sonnet,  as  formulated  by 
Watts-Dunton,  may  be  regarded  in  a  dual 
light.  When  it  is  a  love-sonnet,  or  the 
emotion  is  tender  rather  than  forceful,  the 
music  sweet  rather  than  dignified,  it  will 
be  found  to  correspond  to  the  law  of  flow 
and  ebb — i.e.,  of  the  inflowing  solid  wave 
(the  octave),  the  pause,  and  then  the  broken 
resilient  wash  of  the  wave  (the  sestet). 
When,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  intellectually 
or  passionately  forceful  rather  than  tender 
or  pathetic,  dignified  and  with  impressive 
amplitude  of  imagery  rather  than  strictly 
beautiful,  then  it  will  correspond  to  the  law 
of  ebb  and  flow — i.e.,  of  the  steady  resilient 
wave-wash  till  the  culminating  moment  when 
the  billow  has  curved  and  is  about  to  pour 
shoreward  again  (the  octave),  and  of  the 
solid  inflowing  wave,  sweeping  strongly 
forward  (the  sestet) — in  Keats'  words  : 

Swelling  loudly 
Up  to  its  climax,  and  then  dying  proudly. 

It  is  thus  evident  that  the  Contemporary 
type  is  no  variation  from  the  Petrarcan,  but 
52 


The  Sonnet 

is  simply  an  artistically  understood  develop- 
ment thereof. 

Readers  will  already  have  gathered  that 
there  can  thus  only  be  three  genuine  sonnet- 
types  : 

THE  PETRARCAN  or  NATURAL  SONNET  (compre- 
hending the  Contemporary). 

THE  ENGLISH  or  SHAKESPEAREAN  SONNET. 

THE  MILTONIC  SONNET  (any  Sonnet,  whether  in 
the  Petrarcan  or  Shakespearean  mould,  with 
unbroken  continuity,  metrically  and  other- 
wise, in  its  presentation). 

In  the  wide  scope  thus  afforded  no  poet 
can  with  justice  complain  of  too  rigid 
limitations  :  such  objection-making  must 
simply  be  an  exemplification  of  the  well- 
known  saying  as  to  the  workman  and  his 
tools.  To  these  moreover  may  be  addressed 
Capel  Loftt's  words  (who,  however,  adapted 
them  from  Menzini) — "  No  Procrustes  has 
obliged  you  to  be  lopped  to  the  measure 
of  this  bed :  Parnassus  will  not  be  in 
ruins  even  if  you  should  not  publish  a 
sonnet." 

I  will  not  here  attempt  any  adequate 
survey  of  the  history  of  the  sonnet  in  England 
from  Milton  to  the  present  day.  A- cursory 
glance  must  be  sufficient. 

With  Milton  the  Italian  influence  in  our 
53 


The  Sonnet 

literature  waned,  and  that  of  France  (inau- 
gurated by  Dryden)  took  its  place.  A 
corresponding  change  in  the  poetic  tempera- 
ment rapidly  took  place. 

After  Milton  the  sonnet  almost  languished 
out  of  existence  in  this  country.  Many  years 
after  the  great  Puritan  poet  was  laid  in  his 
grave,  Gray  wrote  an  often-praised  (but  to 
me,  I  must  confess,  a  very  indifferent) 
sonnet  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Richard  West, 
and  Mason  and  Warton  several  of  fair 
quality.  Cowper  (who  died,  as  may  be  re- 
membered, in  the  last  year  of  the  eighteenth 
century)  wrote  one  fine  poem  of  this  class 
to  Mary  Unwin.  Gradually  the  sonnet  began 
to  awake  from  its  poetic  hibernation,  and 
though  one  or  two  women  writers  not 
altogether  unworthily  handled  it,  and  though 
William  Roscoe  and  Egerton  Brydges  even 
used  it  with  moderate  success,  the  first 
real  breath  of  spring  came  in  the  mild  advent 
of  William  Lisle  Bowles.  His  sonnets  move 
us  now  hardly  at  all,  but  when  we  remember 
the  season  of  their  production  we  may  well 
regard  them  with  more  kindly  liberality. 
Bowles  was  born  just  eight  years  before 
William  Wordsworth,  to  whom,  more  than 
any  one  else,  is  due  the  great  revival  and 
increasing  study  and  appreciation  of  the 
54 


The  Sonnet 

sonnet.  Coleridge  wrote  no  fine  sonnets, 
though  he  just  missed  writing  one  which  is 
of  supreme  excellence.  Blanco  White  con- 
centrated all  his  poetic  powers  in  one  great 
effort,  and  wrote  a  sonnet  which  will  live 
as  long  as  the  language — as  in  French 
literature  Felix  Arvers  will  be  remembered 
always  for  his  unique  example,  that  beau- 
tiful sonnet  commencing  "  Mon  dme  a  son 
secret,  ma  vie  a  son  mystere."  Leigh  Hunt, 
true  poet  in  his  degree  as  he  was,  did  truer 
service  by  his  admirable  efforts  in  critical 
literature  towards  the  popularisation  of  the 
sonnet;  and  after  him  (by  "  after  "  reference 
is  made  to  birth-sequence)  came  a  constantly 
increasing  number,  the  chief  of  whom  will  be 
found  represented  in  my  Anthology — among 
the  most  important  being  Sir  Aubrey  de 
Vere,  little  known,  but  a  true  poet  and  a 
fine  sonneteer ;  Byron  (who  wrote  some 
half-dozen  compositions  of  this  class,  and 
wrote  them  well  too,  notwithstanding  his 
real  or  pretended  dislike  of  the  form) ; 
Barry  Cornwall ;  Shelley  (whose  Ozymandias 
is  a  fine  poem  but  not  a  fine  sonnet) ;  and 
Keats.  Though  Keats  has  never  been  and 
probably  never  will  be  a  really  popular 
poet,  his  influence  on  other  poets  and  on 
poetic  temperaments  generally  has  been 
55 


The  Sonnet 

quite  incalculable.  Some  of  his  sonnets  are 
remarkable  for  their  power  and  beauty, 
while  others  are  indifferent  and  a  few  are 
poor.  With  all  his  love  for  the  beauty  of 
isolated  poetic  lines — music  condensed  into 
an  epigram  more  concise  than  the  Greeks 
ever  uttered — as,  for  example,  his  own 
splendid  verse 

There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  mid-night — 
and  with  all  that  sense  of  verbal  melody 
which  he  manifested  so  remarkably  in  his 
odes,  it  is  strange  that  in  his  sonnets  he 
should  so  often  be  at  fault  in  true  harmony. 
Even  the  beautiful  examples  which  I  have 
chosen  for  my  Anthology  afford  instances 
of  this  :  as  in  Ailsa  Rock,  where  the  pen- 
ultimate word  of  the  ninth  line  and  the 
penultimate  word  of  the  tenth  (not  forming 
part  of  the  rhyme  sound,  the  two  terminals 
indeed  being  antagonistic)  are  identical ; 
as  in  the  Elgin  Marbles,  where  "  weak " 
midway  in  the  first  line  has  an  unpleasing 
assonantal  relation  with  "  sleep,"  the  ter- 
minal of  the  second  line  ;  as  in  To  Homer, 
where  after  the  beautiful  eleventh  line 
already  quoted, "  ending  in  "  mid-night," 
there  succeeds  "  sight "  midway  in  the 
twelfth.  These  are  genuine  discords,  and 
those  who  are  unable  to  perceive  them 
56 


The  Sonnet 

simply  prove  their  deficiency  in  ear.  Born 
a  year  later  than  Keats,  Hartley  Coleridge, 
the  poetic  son  of  a  greater  father,  finely 
fulfilled  the  impulse  that  had  come  to  him 
from  Wordsworth,  making  an  abiding  name 
for  hmself  through  his  sonnet-work  alone. 
His  Birth  of  Speech — as  I  have  styled  one 
of  his  best -known  but  unnamed  sonnets 
— is  a  fine  example  of  a  sonnet  in  the 
Miltonic  mould.  Thomas  Hood,  that  true 
poet — so  little  understood  by  the  public 
generally — not  only  wrote  some  fine  sonnets, 
but  wrote  two  of  special  excellence,  one  of 
them  (Silence)  taking  a  place  in  the  very 
front  rank.  Ten  years  younger  than  Hood 
was  Charles  Tennyson-Turner.  Charming, 
even  permanently  beautiful  as  many  of  his 
sonnet-stanzas  are,  their  form  cannot  be 
admired  :  if  we  have  been  correct  in  con- 
sidering the  so-called  pure  types  to  be  the 
true  expression  of  certain  metrical  laws, 
then  certainly  these  compositions  of  his 
are  not  sonnets,  but  only  (to  repeat  Ashcroft 
Noble's  appropriate  term  for  similar  pro- 
ductions) sonnet-stanzas.  The  rhythm  is 
much  broken  up,  and  the  charm  of  assured 
expectancy  is  destroyed.  But  a  greater 
poet  than  Tennyson-Turner,  true  singer  as 
the  latter  was,  came  into  the  world  about 
57 


The  Sonnet 

the  same  time.  No  more  impassioned  soul 
ever  found  expression  in  rhythmical  speech 
than  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  and  there 
is  nothing  in  her  poetry  which  is  finer 
than  that  famous  love-record,  the  so-called 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.  Impetuous  as 
was  her  genius,  hasty  and  frequently  care- 
less as  she  was  in  production,  she  never 
found  the  archetypal  sonnet  too  circum- 
scribed for  her.  The  pathetic  beauty,  the 
fascinating  personality,  the  pure  poetry 
displayed  in  these  sonnets,  have  touched 
many  and  many  a  heart  since  the  tired 
singer  was  laid  to  rest  under  the  cypresses 
not  far  from  that  beloved  river  whose  flow 
she  had  so  often  followed  in  thought  down 
to  the  far-off  Pisan  sea.  Only  those  who  have 
thoroughly  studied  contemporary  poetry, 
and  not  only  the  poetry  which  is  familiar 
to  many,  but  that  also  which  is  quite  un- 
known and  by  minor  writers  of  no  reputation 
or  likelihood  of  reputation,  can  realise  the 
potency  of  Mrs.  Browning's  influence,  espe- 
cially among  women.  Even  to  mention  by 
name  all  those  who  have  charmed,  or  inte- 
rested, or  transiently  attracted  us  by  their 
sonnets  throughout  the  last  fifty  years 
would  take  up  much  more  space  than  I  have 
to  spare,  nor  can  I  even  refer  in  detail 
58 


The  Sonnet 

to  those  who  are  no  longer  with  us.  One 
name,  however,  stands  out  from  all  others 
since  Wordsworth  and  Mrs.  Browning,  like 
a  pine-tree  out  of  a  number  of  graceful 
larches.  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  is  not  only 
one  of  the  great  poets  of  the  century,  but 
the  one  English  poet  whose  sonnet-work 
can  genuinely  be  weighed  in  the  balance 
with  that  of  Shakespeare  and  with  that  of 
Wordsworth.  No  influence  is  at  present 
more  marked  than  his :  its  stream  is 
narrower  than  that  of  Tennyson  and  Brown- 
ing, but  the  current  is  deep,  and  its  fertilising 
waters  have  penetrated  far  and  wide  into 
the  soil.  The  author  of  The  House  of  Life  thus 
holds  a  remarkable  place  in  the  literary 
and  artistic  history  of  the  second  Victorian 
epoch.  No  critic  of  this  poet's  work  will 
have  any  true  grasp  of  it  who  does  not  recog- 
nise that  "  Rossetti  "  signifies  something  of 
greater  import  than  the  beautiful  produc- 
tions of  one  man ;  the  historian  of  the  bril- 
liant period  in  question  will  work  in  the  dark 
if  he  is  unable  to  perceive  one  of  the  chief 
well-springs  of  the  flood,  if  he  should  fail  to 
recognise  the  relationship  between  certain 
radical  characteristics  of  the  time  and  the 
man  who  did  so  much  to  inaugurate  or 
embody  them. 

59 


The  Sonnet 

Shakespeare,  Milton,  Wordsworth,  Mrs. 
Browning,  Rossetti.  Italy  herself  cannot 
present  a  finer  body  of  pure  poetry  in  the 
mould  of  this  form  than  is  to  be  found  in 
the  collective  sonnets  of  these  great  English 
writers.  As  to  the  vexed  question  of  priority 
among  these  sonneteers,  I  need  not  attempt 
to  gauge  the  drift  of  capable  opinion.  For 
myself — and  this  I  set  forward  the  less 
reluctantly  as  I  know  the  opinion  is  shared 
by  so  many  better  judges  than  I  claim  to  be 
— I  would  simply  say  :  (i)  that  the  three 
greatest  sonneteers  of  our  language  seem 
to  me  to  be  Shakespeare,  Wordsworth,  and 
Rossetti  ;  (2)  that  the  two  greatest,  regard- 
ing their  work  en  masse  and  not  by  this  or 
that  sonnet,  or  this  or  that  group  of  sonnets, 
seem  to  me  to  be  Shakespeare  and  Rossetti  ; 
and  (3)  that  no  poet  of  our  own  or  any 
language  could  show  ten  sonnets  equal  in 
breadth  of  thought,  verity  of  poetry,  and 
beauty  of  expression  to  the  ten  greatest 
of  Wordsworth's.  In  "  fundamental  brain- 
work,"  to  use  Rossetti's  phrase,  or  in  the 
composition  of  "  deep-brained  sonnettes," 
to  quote  Shakespeare's,  these  two  poets 
stand  above  Wordsworth ;  but  in  impersonal 
humanity  Shakespeare  rarely,  Rossetti  a 
little  less  rarely,  approaches  the  highest  reach 
60 


The  Sonnet 

of  one  who  in  general  is  their  poetic  inferior. 
For  what  great  poet  at  his  poorest  is  so  poor 
as  Wordsworth  :  in  what  other  great  poetic 
nature  has  there  ever  been  so  abundant  a 
leaven  of  the  prosaic  ?  One  of  the  chief 
poets  in  our  country,  his  garden  has  more 
desert-spaces  in  it  than  any  other,  and  the 
supreme  beauties  are  almost  lost  to  all 
who  have  no  guide  to  the  labyrinth.  But 
these  super-excellent  treasures,  when  once 
found,  how  we  are  carried  away  by  their 
exquisite  perfume,  their  extreme  beauty ! 
We  forget  the  sand  and  the  many  weeds,  and 
for  a  time  believe  that  in  no  other  of  the 
many  gardens  of  verse  blooms  there  such 
loveliness,  breathes  there  such  fragrance. 
But  in  one  thing  Rossetti  is  greater  than 
Wordsworth,  greater  even  than  Shakespeare, 
and  that  is  in  weight  and  volume  of  sound. 
As  a  wind-swayed  pine  seems  literally  to 
shake  off  music  from  its  quivering  branches, 
so  do  his  sonnets  throb  with  and  disperse 
deep-sounding  harmonies.  What  sonority 
of  pure  poetic  speech  there  is  in  this  from 
The  Dark  Glass  : 

Not  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee  : 

How  should  I  reach  so  far,  who  cannot  weigh 
To-morrow's  dower  by  gage  of  yesterday  ? 

Shall  birth  and  death  and  all  dark  names  that  be 
61 


The  Sonnet 

As  doors  and  windows  bared  to  some  loud  sea, 
Lash  deaf  mine  ears  and  blind  my  face  with 

spray  ; 
And  shall  my  sense  pierce  love, — the  last  relay 

And  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity  ? 

or  in  this  from  Lovesight : 

O  love,  my  love  !     If  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening 

slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of  Hope, 

The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing  ? 

How  transcendently  Shakespearean  this 
beautiful  opening  of  the  sestet  of  the  sonnet 
True  Woman — her  Heaven  : 

The  sunrise  blooms  and  withers  on  the  hill 
Like  any  hillflower  ;  and  the  noblest  troth 
Dies  here  to  dust  ! 

A  poem  does  not  require  to  be  an  epic 
to  be  great,  any  more  than  a  man  need  be 
a  giant  to  be  noble.  When  a  fine  thing  is 
adequately  and  completely  stated,  it  does 
not  gain  by  being  embedded  in  an  environ- 
ment too  great  for  it,  like  an  amethyst 
in  a  great  boulder  of  quartz.  In  the  words 
of  an  early  sonnet  commentator — "  like  the 
small  statue  by  the  chisel  of  Lysippus,  they 
62 


The  Sonnet 

demonstrate  that  the  idea  of  greatness  may 
be  excited  independently  of  the  magnitude 
of  size."  Look  at  the  majesty  of  this 
imagery  : 

Even  as,  heavy-curled, 
Stooping  against  the  wind,  a  charioteer 
Is  snatched  from  out  his  chariot  by  the  hair, 
So  shall  Time  be  ;  and  as  the  void  car,  hurled 
Abroad  by  reinless  steeds,  even  so  the  world  : 
Yea,  even  as  chariot-dust  upon  the  air, 
It  shall  be  sought  and  not  found  anywhere  : 

or  at  the  amplitude  of  that  magnificent 
sonnet,  Aubrey  de  Vere's  The  Sun-God  ; 
or  at  the  spaciousness  of  that  of  Wilfred 
Scawen  Blunt  entitled  The  Sublime. 

When  it  is  fully  realised  that  a  sonnet 
must  be  the  complete  development  of  a 
single  motive,  and  that  it  must  at  once  be 
reticent  and  ample,  it  will  be  understood 
how  true  is  that  line  of  Boileau  :  "  Un 
sonnet  sans  defaut  vaut  seul  un  long  poeme." 
Sonnets  are  like  waves  of  the  sea,  each  on 
a  small  scale  that  which  the  ocean  is  on  a 
large.  "  A  sonnet  is  a  moment's  monu- 
ment," wrote  Rossetti,  in  one  of  his  own 
compositions — not  improbably  unconsciously 
reproducing  that  line  of  de  Musset,  in  his 
"Impromptu  en  reponse  a  cette  question: 
'  Qu'est-ce  que  la  poesie  ? ' — Eterniser  peut- 
63 


The  Sonnet 

etre  un  reve  d'un  instant."  It  is  to  in- 
dulge in  no  mere  metaphysical  subtlety 
to  say  that  life  can  be  as  ample  in  one 
divine  moment  as  in  an  hour,  or  a  day,  or 
a  year.  And  there  is  a  wide  world  of  sensa- 
tion open  to  the  sonneteer  if  he  will  but 
exercise  not  only  a  wise  reticence,  but  also 
vivid  perception  and  acute  judgment.  As 
the  writer  in  the  Quarterly  Review  has  well 
said,  "  the  sonnet  might  almost  be  called 
the  alphabet  of  the  human  heart,  since 
almost  every  kind  of  emotion  has  been 
expressed,  or  attempted  to  be  expressed,  in 
it."  And  in  this,  more  than  in  any  other 
poetic  form,  it  is  well  for  the  would-be 
composer  to  study,  not  only  every  line  and 
every  word,  but  every  vowel  and  every  part 
of  each  word,  endeavouring  to  obtain  the 
most  fit  phrase,  the  most  beautiful  and 
original  turn  to  the  expression — to  be,  like 
Keats,  "  misers  of  sound  and  syllable."  More- 
over, in  no  form  is  revision  more  advisable  : 
in  none  is  it  less  likely  to  be  harmful,  for 
a  sonnet  is  pre-eminently  a  form  embody- 
ing emotion  remembered  in  tranquillity,  as 
Wordsworth  defined  poetry  generally.  We 
know  that  Petrarca  has  himself  recorded 
how  he  passed  the  file  athwart  his  handiwork 
over  and  over  again,  and  but  rarely,  even 
64 


The  Sonnet 

then,  saw  the  gem  leave  his  cabinet  without 
reluctance — how  he  wrote  not  hurriedly, 
and  issued  with  still  greater  circumspection, 
letting  each  sonnet,  as  Leigh  Hunt  expresses 
it,  lie  polishing  in  his  mind  for  months 
together,  like  a  pebble  on  the  sea-shore. 
And  not  less  enamoured  of  perfection  for 
perfection's  sake  was  the  greatest  sonneteer 
of  our  own  time,  every  one  of  whose  sonnets 
was  passed  again  and  again  through  the 
white  heat  of  imaginative  and  critical  com- 
parative study  :  in  Rossetti's  own  words, 
the  first  and  highest  quality  of  finish  in 
poetic  execution,  "  is  that  where  the  work 
has  been  all  mentally  '  cartooned,'  as  it 
were,  beforehand,  by  a  process  intensely 
conscious,  but  patient  and  silent — an  occult 
evolution  of  life." 

Some  score  or  more  of  essential  rules 
might  well  be  formulated  for  the  behoof, 
not  only  of  those  who  wish  to  write  in  the 
sonnet-form,  but  also  of  those  who  do  not 
even  yet  fully  realise  how  many  things 
go  to  the  making  of  a  really  good  sonnet. 
These  regulations,  major  and  minor,  are  to 
be  found  fully  set  forth  by  Leigh  Hunt  and 
also  by  Mark  Pattison,  but  a  complete 
statement  of  points  to  be  observed  is  here 
now  unnecessary.  It  will  suffice  if  I  set 

il  65  E 


The  Sonnet 

forth  the  ten  absolutely  essential  rules  for 
a  good  sonnet : 

I.  The  sonnet  must  consist  of  fourteen  deca- 
syllabic lines. 

II.  Its  octave,  or  major  system,  whether  or 
not  this  be  marked  by  a  pause  in  the 
cadence  after  the  eighth  line,  must 
(unless  cast  in  the  Shakespearean  mould) 
follow  a  prescribed  arrangement  in  the 
rhyme-sounds — namely,  the  first,  fourth, 
fifth,  and  eighth  lines  must  rhyme  on 
the  same  sound,  and  the  second,  third, 
sixth,  and  seventh  on  another. 

III.  Its    sestet,    or    minor    system,    may    be 

arranged  with  more  freedom,  but  a 
rhymed  couplet  at  the  close  is  only 
allowable  when  the  form  is  the  English 
or  Shakespearean. 

IV.  No   terminal   should    also   occur   in    any 

portion  of  any  other  line  in  the  same 
system  ;  and  (i)  the  rhyme-sounds  of 
the  octave  should  be  harmoniously  at 
variance,  and  (2)  the  rhyme-sounds  of 
the  sestet  should  be  entirely  distinct  in 
intonation  from  those  of  the  octave. 
Thus  (i)  no  octave  should  be  based 
on  a  monotonous  system  of  nominally 
distinct  rhymes,  such  as  sea — futurity — 
eternity  —  be  —  flee  —  adversity  —  inevit- 
ably— -free. 

V.  It  must  have  no  slovenliness  of  diction, 
no  weak  or  indeterminate  terminations, 
no  vagueness  of  conception,  and  no 
obscurity. 

66 


The  Sonnet 

VI.  It  must  be  absolutely  complete  in  itself — 
i.e.,  it  must  be  the  evolution  of  one 
thought,  or  one  emotion,  or  one  poeti- 
cally apprehended  fact. 

VII.  It  should  have  the  characteristic  of 
apparent  inevitableness,  and  in  ex- 
pression be  ample,  yet  reticent.  It 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  dignity 
and  repose  are  essential  qualities  of  a 
true  sonnet. 

VIII.  The  continuity  of  the  thought,  idea,  or 
emotion  must  be  unbroken  throughout. 

IX.  Continuous  sonority  must  be  maintained 

from  the  first  phrase  to  the  last. 
X.  The  end  must  be  more  impressive  than  the 
commencement- — the  close  must  not  be 
inferior  to,  but  must  rather  transcend 
what  has  gone  before. 

If  these  rules  are  adequately  fulfilled, 
there  will  be  every  chance  of  the  sonnet 
proving  a  super-excellent  one.  But  there 
must  be  no  mere  music,  no  mere  sonority, 
no  fourteen-line  descriptions  of  aspects  of 
nature  in  the  manner  of  Wordsworth  in 
his  Duddon-sonnets,  for  example.  Beneath 
the  intermingling  lights  of  apt  simile  and 
imaginative  metaphor,  beneath  the  melody 
of  vowels  and  words  melting  into  the 
melody  of  the  line,  and  the  harmony  of 
the  due  proportion  of  the  lines  themselves 
from  first  to  last,  there  must  lie,  clear 
and  undisturbed  by  its  environment,  the 
67 


The  Sonnet 

dominating  motive — the  idea,  the  thought, 
the  emotion. 

But  after  all  these  remarks  upon  techni- 
calities— after  all  this  talk  about  octaves 
and  sestets,  vowels  and  consonants,  I  must 
not  let  the  reader  suppose  that  such  matters 
form  anything  more  than  the  mere  scaffold- 
ing of  poetry.  Whether  in  sonnet-form  or 
in  any  other  guise,  "  poetry  must  always," 
as  has  been  said  by  a  writer  often  quoted 
in  this  essay,  "  reflect  the  life  of  Nature 
or  the  life  of  Man,  else  it  is  nothing 
worth." 

I  write  these  last  words  not  far  from  the 
sombre  shadow  of  Ben  Ledi — the  Hill  of 
God,  as  the  name  signifies — sombre  not- 
withstanding the  white  garment  of  snow 
in  which  it  is  enveloped.  The  stream 
flowing  far  beneath  it  is  apparently  one 
sheet  of  dark  ice  :  not  a  familiar  object  is 
in  view,  and  nothing  is  audible  save  the 
occasional  snapping  of  a  frost-bitten  branch, 
or  that  strangest  of  all  sounds,  the  north 
wind  ruffling  the  snow-drifts  on  the  upper 
hill-slopes ;  not  a  living  thing  is  visible, 
though  far  up,  on  a  vast  expanse  of  unbroken 
white,  a  tiny  blue-black  shadow  moves 
like  a  sweeping  scimitar,  and  I  know  that 
68 


The  Sonnet 

an  eagle  is  passing  from  peak  to  lonely 
peak. 

Away — for  a  brief  space — from  the  turmoil 
and  many  conflicting  interests  of  the  great 
city,  "  mother  of  joys  and  woes,"  I  realise 
the  more  clearly  how  much  more  beautiful 
and  reposeful  and  stimulative  Nature  is  than 
any  imitation  of  her,  how  much  greater 
Life  than  its  noblest  artistic  manifesta- 
tion. I  realise,  also,  how  true  it  is  that 
the  sincerest  poetic  function — for  sonneteer 
as  for  lyrist  or  epicist — is  not  the  creation  of 
what  is  strange  or  fanciful,  but  the  imagina- 
tive interpretation  of  what  is  familiar,  so 
that  a  thing  is  made  new  to  us  :  in  the  words 
of  an  eminent  critic,  Leslie  Stephen,  "  the 
highest  triumph  of  style  is  to  say  what 
everybody  has  been  thinking  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  it  new." 

Here,  also,  in  this  soothing  solitude,  this 
dignified,  this  majestic  silence,  this  secret 
and  "  holy  lair  "  of  her  who  is,  the  poet 
tells  us,  Natura  Benigna  or  Natura  Maligna 
according  to  the  eyes  that  gaze  and  the 
ears  that  hearken,  it  seems  as  if  all  that 
is  morbid  and  unreal  and  merely  fanciful 
were  indeed  petty  enough,  and  that  perfect 
sanity  of  mind  is  as  essential  to  the  creation 
of  any  great  and  lasting  mental  product 
69 


The  Sonnet 

as  perfect  robustness  is  to  the  due  perform- 
ance of  any  prolonged  and  fatiguing  physical 
endurance.  In  the  words  of  Leslie  Stephen, 
the  highest  poetry,  like  the  noblest  morality, 
is  the  product  of  a  thoroughly  healthy 
mind. 

1886 


SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS 

THERE  are  two  ways  of  approaching  the 
study  of  Shakespeare's  Sonnets — that  of 
the  earnest  and  reverent  student  of  the 
man  and  his  work,  and  that  of  the  critic 
already  biassed  in  some  direction.  It  may 
with  safety  be  said  that  no  writer  has 
suffered  more  at  the  hands  of  would-be  inter- 
preters. Shakespeare's  simple  meaning  has 
been  tortured  into  all  manner  of  strange 
disguises  :  his  straightforward  words  have 
been  taken  to  signify  everything  from  the 
basest  immorality  to  the  wildest  of  meta- 
physical absurdities.  There  is  no  length  of 
mental  folly  that  has  not  measured  its 
strength  with  the  robust  and  long-enduring 
steadfastness  of  our  greatest  poet's  genius 
as  manifested  in  that  famous  series  which, 
as  a  foremost  living  critic  has  remarked, 
in  itself  constitutes  a  warrant  of  perpetual 
fame. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  in  that  shadowy 
region  where  dwell  the  spirits  of  the  worthy 

71 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

no  earthly  rumour  breaks  in  upon  the  peace 
of  one  who  fought  triumphantly  the  battle 
of  his  own  life,  leaving,  in  no  stinted  measure, 
some  record  of  the  stress  and  strife  of  his 
mortal  passions  as  a  priceless  inheritance  to 
those  that  came  after  him.  Pathetic  would 
it  be  if  those  ears  which  on  earth  had  listened 
to  the  sea-like  melody  of  The  Tempest  and 
the  sadder  harmony  of  King  Lear — the 
thrilling  human  note,  the  vox-humana  of 
Hamlet — the  joyous  delight-in-life  of  As 
You  Like  It — the  exquisite  minor  touches 
of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream — pathetic 
would  it  be  if  those  ears  had  to  apprehend 
the  foolish  disquisitions  of  a  Steevens  on 
a  series  of  poems  which  "  had  reduced  their 
author  to  a  level  with  the  meanest 
rhymers  "  ;  or  the  far-fetched  interpreta- 
tions of  a  Heraud,  finding  in  Shakespeare's 
mistress  of  a  season  no  other  than  The 
Church,  the  "  black  but  comely  bride  of 
Solomon  "  ;  the  almost  equally  wild  theories 
of  a  Gerald  Massey ;  or  the  repugnant 
explanations  of  a  Philarete  Chasles ;  or, 
densest  of  all,  the  hopelessly  muddle-headed 
Eureka  of  a  Barnstorff,  triumphantly  de- 
claring that  the  enigmatical  "  W.  H."  of 
the  dedication  stands  for  "  William  Him- 
self "  !  and  that  throughout  the  series 
72 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

'  William  "  is  but  apostrophising  his  own 
Interior  Individuality  ! 

If  such  sad  circumstance  do  indeed  afflict 
the  serene  consciousness  of  the  great  Shade 
in  question,  some  mitigation  of  his  suffering 
must  have  been  afforded  by  the  labours 
of  those  clear-sighted  commentators  of 
recent  years  who  have  been  content  to 
accept  his  utterances  as  they  were  meant 
to  be  understood,  and,  instead  of  vainly 
evolving  from  their  inner  consciousness 
strange  and  monstrous  imaginings,  have 
restricted  themselves  to  solving,  or  en- 
deavouring to  solve,  certain  points  of 
strictly  personal  or  merely  clerical  dubiety. 
Pre-eminently  is  the  gratitude  of  students — 
that  is,  of  all  lovers  of  Shakespeare's  poetic 
work — due  to  that  accomplished  writer  and 
Shakespearean  authority,  Professor  Dowden  ; 
to  the  late  J.  P.  Collier ;  to  Mr.  Thomas 
Tyler  ;  to  Dr.  Furnivall ;  to  Messrs.  Clarke 
and  Wright,  the  Cambridge  editors ;  to 
Mr.  Palgrave  ;  to  Professor  W.  Minto  ;  to 
Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti ;  to  Mr.  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton ;  to  Mr.  David  Main ;  to  Mr.  Hall 
Caine  ;  and,  among  foreign  writers,  M.  Taine 
in  France,  and  Mr.  Grant  White  and  Miss 
Hillard  in  America.  No  one  of  these  emi- 
nent students  (or  of  others  whose  names  I  do 
73 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

not  at  the  moment  recall)  has  permitted  his 
or  her  mental  vision  to  be  obscured  by  the 
bewildering  conjectural  mists  arising  out  of 
that  miasma  of  sheer  foolishness  along  whose 
illusive  banks  have  strayed  so  many  witless 
wanderers.  They  one  and  all  see  in  the 
first  series  of  sonnets  (i.  to  xcvi.)  nothing 
but  a  plain  declaration  of  the  writer's  loyal, 
self-renouncing,  nobly  persistent  love  for  a 
younger  and  perhaps  not  wholly  worthy 
friend  ;  and  with  but  one  exception  *  they 
recognise  in  the  remainder,  the  "  Dark 
Woman  "  series  (cxxvii.  to  clii.),  the  reve- 
lation of  a  great  passion  that  for  a  season 
rendered  full  of  bitter  import  the  life  of  the 
greatest  of  our  countrymen. 

Among  the  most  eminent  poets  of  our 
own  time,  Robert  Browning  only  has 
doubted  Shakespeare's  having  shown  us 
glimpses  of  his  direct  personal  experience. 
We  all  know  Wordsworth's  famous  words  in 
his  sonnet  on  The  Sonnet:  With  this  same 

*  Professor  Minto,  who  regards  the  Woman- 
Series  not  in  the  light  of  a  personal  revelation, 
but  as  "  exercises  of  skill  undertaken  in  a  spirit 
of  wanton  defiance  and  derision  of  commonplace  " 
— a  view  first  enunciated  by  Mr.  Henry  Brown,  who 
particularised  Michael  Drayton  and  John  Davies 
as  the  writers  who  were  specially  though  indirectly 
thus  satirised. 

74 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

key  Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart,  to  which 
Browning  takes  objection,  adding :  "  Did 
Shakespeare  ?  If  so,  the  less  Shakespeare 
he  !  " — a  metrical  criticism  that  brought 
forth  the  counter-remark  of  Swinburne : 
"  No  whit  the  less  like  Shakespeare,  but  un- 
doubtedly the  less  like  Browning."  Shelley, 
Keats,  Coleridge,  and  Wordsworth  indubit- 
ably held  the  personal  theory,  as,  later,  have 
Swinburne,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  Victor 
Hugo,  and  others,  whose  opinions,  by  virtue 
of  their  own  poetic  powers,  may  be  considered 
worthy  of  special  attention. 

It  may  well  be  asked,  why  should  there 
be  this  persistent  digging  for  hidden  signi- 
ficance in  the  work  of  a  man  whose  genius 
was  no  more  secretive  than  that  of  any  other 
dramatist  ?  We  do  not  speculate  wildly  on 
all  possible  meanings  that  human  ingenuity 
is  capable  of  twisting  out  of  the  Amoretti 
of  Spenser  or  the  Astrophel  and  Stella  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  :  why  then  should  we 
approach  Shakespeare's  sonnets  as  if  they 
were  the  profoundest  enigmas  ? 

One  reason  undoubtedly  lies  in  the 
senseless  habit  of  insincere  laudation  that 
prevails  to  such  extent.  Out  of  every  twenty 
who  speak  of  Shakespeare  as  the  greatest 
intellect  since  ^Eschylus  and  Plato,  are  there 
75 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

ten  who  have  ever  read  all  his  writings  ?  Are 
there  five  who  intimately  know  them  ?  Are 
there  even  two  who  find  endless  pleasure, 
wonder,  suggestion,  comfort,  inspiration,  in 
the  sonnets  ?  It  is  to  be  feared  not.  It  is 
to  be  feared  that  there  are  too  many  whose 
loud  appreciation  of  Shakespeare's  greatness 
is  based  merely  on  an  acquaintance  with 
Irving  in  the  characters  of  Hamlet  and 
Shylock — with  Ellen  Terry  in  those  of  Portia 
and  Ophelia.  There  is  perhaps  no  greater 
test  of  Shakespeare's  overwhelming  genius 
than  the  circumstance  that  it  successfully 
withstands  the  rank  incense  with  which  it 
is  assailed  by  fools  and  all  manner  of 
thoughtless  persons,  a  cloud  of  indiscrimi- 
nate praise  sufficient  to  obscure  all  but  the 
loftiest  summits  in  the  serene  region  of 
the  intellect.  And  it  is  this  universal  Ave 
Imperator  Poetarum  I  that  is  at  least  in  part 
responsible  for  the  innumerable  vagaries  of 
psychological  commentators — this,  coupled 
with  an  inherent  preference  on  their  part 
for  darkness  rather  than  for  light.  Realising 
that  the  greatest  creator  of  multiform  types 
of  humanity  is  held  in  such  universal 
esteem,  they  seem  to  consider  it  incumbent 
upon  them  to  prove  that  he  was  not  a  man 
like  as  we  are  ;  that  in  all  things  he  was 
76 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

perfect,  a  flawless  man,  more  ideal  than  any 
one  of  his  most  ideal  conceptions. 

What  folly  is  this  !  Granting  for  a  moment 
that  Shakespeare  could  have  been  the  divine 
being  some  of  his  admirers  would  fain  make 
him  out,  where  could  he  have  gained  those 
experiences  that  render  his  imaginative 
work  quick  with  vitality  ;  where  could  he 
have  laid  in  that  ballast  of  practical  know- 
ledge without  which  the  ship  of  his  genius 
would  have  sailed  across  no  turbulent  ocean 
of  human  life,  traversed  no  perilous  shoals 
of  danger  and  death,  but  have  been  borne 
irresistibly  away  by  any  casual  wind  to 
speedy  wreckage  on  the  rocks  of  reality, 
or  have  foundered  helplessly  as  soon  as 
the  transient  sunshine  had  given  place  to 
darkness  and  storm  ?  Whatever  else  he  was, 
we  may  rest  assured  that  he  was  pre-emi- 
nently manly,  and  therefore  that  he  expe- 
rienced all  those  emotions  to  which  men 
are  ordinarily  liable  ;  that  he  wrestled  with 
temptations  even  as  we  ourselves  do  ;  that 
not  infrequently,  especially  in  the  impul- 
sive ardours  of  youth,  indiscretion  overcame 
precept  and  prudence  ;  that  occasionally  he 
spoke  and  acted  as  he  would  fain  not  have 
done  ;  that  once  or  twice,  at  least,  in  his  life 
he  had  bitter  cause  to  bewail  the  domination 
77 


of  the  body,  the  surrender  of  the  better 
part  of  him.*  The  magnetism  of  all  genuine 
work  of  Shakespeare  lies  in  its  essential 
humanity  :  no  one  lives  but  could  find  his 
most  salient  mental  and  spiritual  traits 
delineated  somewhere  in  that  marvellous 
gallery  of  portraits  comprised  in  the  Plays. 
Could  this  man,  who  touched  to  such  keen 
music  all  the  notes  of  humanity,  who  sounded 
the  subtlest  spiritual  chords,  who  produced 
the  saddest  as  well  as  the  most  joyous,  the 
most  majestic  strains  along  the  whole 
diapason  of  life  and  death,  could  this  man 
have  been  otherwise  than  a  veritable  fellow 
of  our  own,  compact  of  strength  and  weak- 
ness, will  and  impulse,  soul  and  body  ? 

And  it  is  because  this  great  master  over 
the  passions  and  follies  and  heroisms  of 
man  has  at  least  once  dropped  the  veil  of 
impersonality  that  we  are  so  fascinated  by 
the  sonnets.  Here  the  musician  who  has 
otherwise  played  for  all  generations  of 
humanity  pipes  a  solitary  tune  of  his  own 
life,  its  love,  its  devotion,  its  fervour,  its 
prophetic  exaltation,  its  passion,  its  despair, 
its  exceeding  bitterness.  There  he  speaks 
to  the  wide  world,  that  admires  while  it 

*  Vide,  in  further  confirmation,  the  remark- 
able sonnet,  No.  cxix. 

78 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

learns  not,  or  but  little  :  here,  he  speaks  to 
us,  to  each  one  of  us  who  have  ears  to  hear, 
or  have  care  to  listen.  Not  only  the  poets — 
the  Words  worths,  the  Shelleys,  the  Cole- 
ridges,  the  Rossettis,  the  Victor  Hugos — 
experience  the  full  potency  of  this  fascina- 
tion ;  the  magnetism  of  it  holds  in  spell  all 
those  whose  view  of  life  is,  in  howsoever  slight 
degree,  transformed  with  the  glamour  that  is 
as  aerial  distance  to  the  brown  fallow-land 
of  the  commonplace.  Veritably,  we  are  here 
face  to  face  with  "  a  splendour  amid  glooms." 
Yet  another  reason  for  the  strange  obtuse- 
ness  of  some  would-be  interpreters  is  an 
apparent  forgetfulness  of  the  most  obvious 
facts  of  chronology.  Would  the  man  who 
was  capable  of  writing  such  immortal 
works  as  The  Tempest,  King  Lear,  Macbeth, 
Hamlet,  Othello — so  urge  they,  in  effect — be 
likely  to  condescend  to  such  almost  unreason- 
ing devotion  to  a  boyish  friend  ?  still  less 
would  he  be  likely  to  forget  the  unspoken 
commands  of  duty,  and  yield  to  a  tempta- 
tion which  was  doubly  evil  in  that  the  sinner 
transgressed  against  both  moral  and  civil 
law  ?  But  it  was  not  the  Shakespeare  of 
Hamlet,  of  Lear,  of  Macbeth,  of  Othello,  who 
addressed  the  brilliant  young  Herbert  of 
Pembroke  in  terms  which  now  seem  to  us 
79 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

extravagant  in  their  ardour  ;  it  was  not  this 
Shakespeare  who  for  a  time  forgot  fealty 
to  wife  and  child  for  an  enthralling  passion 
that  disturbed  his  spiritual  nature  to  its 
deepest  depths,  though  it  left  them  clearer 
than  they  had  yet  been,  serene  for  evermore. 
But  it  was  that  younger  Shakespeare,  still 
in  his  years  of  youth,  adventuresome,  full 
of  life,  inspired  with  the  fire  of  genius,  elate 
with  already  won  success,  susceptible  to 
every  charm  pertinent  to  the  joyous  pageant 
of  life  around  him, — that  Shakespeare,  who, 
as  a  young  man  married  untimely  and 
early  thrown  upon  the  world  to  carve  out  his 
own  destiny,  so  far  as  in  him  lay,  loved 
with  true  affection,  and  with  all  the  Euphu- 
istic  emphasis  in  expression  characteristic 
of  the  generation,  his  brilliant  young  friend, 
William  Herbert ;  rejoiced  in  the  company 
of  accomplished  men  of  divers  talents ; 
was  half  surprised  into  and  doubtless 
strenuously  fought  against  a  liaison  with 
one  whom  he  afterwards  found  to  be  un- 
worthy even  as  a  paramour.  Shakespeare, 
like  many  another  man,  had  to  pass  through 
the  dark  valley  of  humiliation  and  weariness 
and  sorrow ;  and  they  are  but  bat-sighted 
apologists  who  would  have  us  believe  that, 
instead  of  going  through  these  experiences 
80 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

which  taught  him  such  infinite  store  of  wis- 
dom, he  spent  his  youthful  years  in  thinking 
out  indifferent  allegories,  and  in  tricking  them 
forth  in  still  more  intricate  and  (from  this 
point  of  view)  dissatisfying  verbal  disguise. 
Nor  must  the  fact  be  overlooked  that  at 
any  rate  one  important  section  of  these 
revelations — to  us  so  deeply  interesting — 
was  never  published  by  him  either  directly 
or  indirectly,  so  far  as  has  been  ascertained. 
He  was  not  the  kind  of  man  to  invite  the 
world  in  general  to  share  in  his  private 
hopes  and  fears,  his  trials  of  friendship,  his 
love  agonies.  The  "  W.  H."  series,  or  prob- 
ably but  a  limited  number  thereof,  circu- 
lated among  a  few  friends  and  their  acquaint- 
ances, possibly  not  at  Shakespeare's  instance 
at  all  (possibly,  even,  with  only  his  half- 
willing  consent),  but  at  that  of  young 
Herbert,  or  even  at  that  of  some  friend  of  the 
latter  and  generous  admirer  of  the  former. 
That  the  young  poet  did  not  look  upon  the 
authorship  of  the  sonnets  as  disguisable  is 
evident  from  these  lines  in  Sonnet  Ixxvi.  : 

Why  write  I  still  all  one,  ever  the  same, 
And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed, 

[i.e.,  in  a  known,  a  recognisable  style] 
That  every  word  doth  almost  tell  my  name, 
Showing  their  birth  and  where  they  did  proceed  ? 
II  8l  F 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

Also  that  he  intended  their  ultimate  publi- 
cation in  the  generally  accepted  sense  of 
the  word  may  with  tolerable  certainty  be 
inferred  from  internal  evidence  :  e.g.,  the 
last  lines  of  Sonnet  xxxviii.  : 

//  my  slight  Muse  do  please  these  curious  days, 
The  pain  be  mine,  but  thine  shall  be  the  praise. 

But  it  was  not  till  many  years  after  their 
composition  (diverse  in  date  as  they  are) 
that  they  were  published  in  book  form, 
and  even  then  they  had  not  their  author's 
supervision,  if  even  his  direct  consent  to 
their  collective  issue.  It  is  certainly  unlikely 
that  he  would  have  published  the  two  series 
as  they  appear  in  the  Quarto  of  1609, 
Nos.  cxxvii.  to  clii.  being  beyond  doubt 
antecedent  in  composition  to  those,  or  to 
the  great  majority  of  those,  addressed  to 
"  W.  H." 

In  the  very  evident  deficiency  in  strict 
sequence,  and  in  the  equally  manifest  want 
of  arrangement  according  to  persons  and 
periods,  is  alone  almost  sufficient  basis  for 
the  argument  that  Shakespeare  wrote  these 
sonnets  not  as  literary  exercises,  but  as 
genuine  expressions  of  emotion,  either  when 
first  swayed  by  this  emotion,  or  when 
stirred  by  vivid  remembrance.  One  or  two 
82 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

of  the  sonnets,  peculiarly  suited  for  adapta- 
tion, he  interpolated  in  one  of  his  early 
comedies,  Love's  Labour's  Lost.  Otherwise, 
it  is  generally  understood  that  the  first 
printed  sonnets  of  Shakespeare  are  those 
surreptitiously  given  by  Jaggard  in  his 
quaintly  styled  miscellany,  The  Passionate 
Pilgrim  (published  in  1599).  How  Jaggard 
obtained  these  and  other  pieces  we  do  not 
know,  though  it  is  of  course  possible  that  he 
applied  to  one  who  was  already  heralded 
as  a  coming  luminary,  a  master  of  melli- 
fluous verse,*  and  obtained  permission  to 
print  them,  the  young  poet  all  the  while 
not  suspecting  that  the  authorship  of  the 
whole  miscellany  was  to  be  attributed  to 
him.  But  against  this  supposition  there 
are  serious  objections.  Firstly  (but  this  is  of 
minor  importance),  the  two  opening  sonnets 
differ  considerably  in  details  from  their 
counterparts  (Nos.  cxxxvii.  and  cxliv.)  in 
Thomas  Thorpe's  edition  of  the  Complete 
Sonnets,  published  ten  years  later.  This 
might  either  point  to  the  fact  that  Shake- 

*  Francis  Meres  in  his  Palladis  Tamia,  Wit's 
Treasury  (published  in  1598),  speaks  of  the 
"  sweete  wittie  soule  of  Ovid  "  living  "  in  melli- 
fluous and  honey-tongued  Shakespeare,"  and 
refers,  inter  alia,  to  his  "  sugred  sonnets  among 
his  private  friends." 

83 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

speare  altered  the  misreadings,  or  improved 
the  original  versions,  in  his  own  ^d  other 
copies  of  The  Passionate  Pilgrim — correc- 
tions which  duly  came  under  the  notice 
of  Thorpe  ;  or  else  it  might  point  to  Jaggard 
having  taken  them  down  on  hearsay,  or 
having  copied  them  from  unrevised  or  care- 
lessly replicated  versions.  Secondly,  it  is 
not  likely  that  Shakespeare  would  have 
given  any  compiler  mere  studies,  as  un- 
doubtedly are  the  Venus  and  Adonis  sonnets 
and  Divisions  Nos.  iv.,  vi.,  ix.,  and  xi.  of 
The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  especially  in  incom- 
plete form  (as  in  Division  ix.,  which  wants 
the  second  line)  ;  charming  as  they  are, 
though  too  characteristic  of  an  age  differing 
essentially  from  our  own  to  be  suited  for 
"  a  mixed  audience,"  they  are  manifestly 
but  studies  for,  or  contemporary  offshoots 
from,  the  composition  of  Venus  and  Adonis, 
published  from  five  to  six  years  before  the 
appearance  of  Jaggard's  miscellany.  Thirdly, 
still  less  would  he  be  likely  to  contribute 
odd  stanzas,  as  Divisions  x.  and  xiii.  (prob- 
ably draft-portions  of,  or  excerpts  from, 
an  unpublished  elegiac  poem — printed  in 
my  edition  under  the  title  Death  in 
Youth  and  Beauty),  or  Divisions  xiv. 
and  xv.,  disconnected  sets,  probably  part 
84 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

of  a  contemplated,  an  unfinished,  or  a 
lost  love-poem,  if  indeed  by  Shakespeare 
at  all. 

It  is,  of  course,  somewhat  puzzling  to 
understand  how  such  sonnets  as  the  first 
three  of  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  (in  publica- 
tion ten  years  anterior  to  that  of  the  first 
collective  edition)  could  have  come  within 
Jaggard's  cognisance  unless  given  him  by 
their  author.  It  is  almost  certain  that  they 
were  portions  of  the  series  addressed  to 
the  woman  who  was  at  one  time  Shake- 
speare's mistress,  and  if  so,  is  it  likely, 
records  of  strong  emotion  and  bitter  expe- 
rience as  they  are,  that  he  would  have 
handed  them  over  to  an  adventurous  pub- 
lisher ?  It  would  be  easy,  of  course,  to 
make  one  surmise  after  another  in  favour  of 
the  young  poet's  having  done  so ;  but  where 
there  is  little  light  to  go  by,  we  must  follow 
what  seems  most  like  a  gleam  of  dayshine, 
and  not  every  illusive  will-o'-the-wisp  that 
flickers  along  the  difficult  way.  For  my 
part,  I  can  only  surmise  that  (i)  Shakespeare 
showed  these  and  other  love-sonnets  to  his 
friend  Herbert  before  the  latter  became  his 
rival,  or  else  subsequently  to  the  desertion 
of  the  latter  in  turn  (or  his  of  the  Dark 
Woman),  and  that  Herbert  (or  Earl  of 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

Pembroke  as,  in  the  event  of  the  latter 
supposition  being  correct,  he  would  be) 
showed  them  to  a  friend  or  friends,  through 
whom  they  reached  Jaggard ;  or  (2)  that 
Shakespeare's  mistress  herself,  in  a  spirit 
of  wanton  indifference,  mockery,  or  jealousy 
(hoping  to  stir  up  a  real  dissension  between 
the  two  friends  who  loved  her),  showed  or 
gave  them  to  Pembroke,  or  perhaps  out  of 
sheer  vanity  allowed  them  to  be  copied  by 
more  or  less  disinterested  acquaintances  ; 
or  (3) — and  this  seems  to  me  the  likeliest 
of  all — the  whole  body  of  the  sonnets  was 
never  actually  sent  to  his  mistress  at  all, 
but  in  the  main  simply  constituted  Shake- 
speare's contemporary  record  of  the  passion 
that  so  deeply  affected  his  life  at  that 
period.  This  record  he  may  at  a  later  period 
have  shown  to  Pembroke  or  some  other 
friend,  and  so  indirectly  brought  about  their 
ultimate  publication.  Individual  sonnets, 
as  those  of  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  not 
necessarily  revealing  the  genuine  standpoint 
of  the  writer,  may  have  been  previously 
permitted  to  circulate  in  manuscript. 
What  lover  would  ever  have  written 
to  his  mistress  sonnets  —  i.e.,  missives 
intended  for  her  receipt — containing  such 
remarks  as 

86 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair,  and  thought  thee  bright, 
Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  dark  as  night  ! 

(S.  cxlvii.) 

or 

For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair  ;  more  perjured  I 
To  swear  against  the  truth  so  foul  a  He. 

(S.  clii.) 

Probably,  out  of  the  twenty-six,  eleven  (Nos. 
cxxviii.,  cxxxi.  to  cxxxvi.  inclusive,  cxxxix., 
cxl. ,  cxliii. ,  and  cxlix.)  were  actually  sent  to  his 
mistress  at  different  periods  :  the  remainder 
(even  including  a  sonnet  like  No.  cl.,  with  its 
"  thou's  ")  I  conjecture  to  have  been — as 
already  stated — pages  of  what  may  be 
called  Shakespeare's  private  journal  of  his 
passion,  and  certainly  not  love-missives. 
Not  improbably  they  form  as  they  stand  a 
genuine  sequence,  their  author  having  either 
sent  copies  of  certain  of  them  after  their 
entry  in  his  MS.  book,  or,  as  is  more  likely, 
made  the  entries  in  the  latter  from  originals 
duly  sent.  Nos.  cxxix.,  cxliv.,  cxlvi.,  are 
surely  not  such  missives  as  he  would  have 
sent  to  the  woman  he  loved  or  had  loved  : 
such  a  procedure  would  be  contrary  both  to 
his  own  chivalrous  nature  and  the  spirit 
of  the  times.  No.  cxli.  itself  affords  fairly  con- 
clusive proof  that  at  any  rate  all  the  sonnets 
were  not  sent ;  for  in  addition  to  its  being 
87 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

such  a  missive  as  no  lover,  in  whatever 
mood,  would  send  to  his  inamorata,  it  may 
be  noted  that  the  personal  address  charac- 
terising the  opening  lines  is  forgotten  in 
the  couplet,  where  "  she  "  usurps  "  thou." 

The  chief  points  of  difficulty,  and  of 
critical  dissensions,  are,  broadly  speaking, 
five  in  number,  viz. :  (i)  The  sphinx-like 
Dedication  ;  (2)  the  identity  of  the  friend 
of  Sonnets  i.  to  cxxvi. ;  (3)  the  identity 
of  the  Rival  Poet  referred  to  in  this  series  ; 
(4)  the  arrangement  of  the  sonnets  in  groups  ; 
and  (5)  the  identity  of  the  inspirer  of  Sonnets 
cxxvii.  to  clii.,  and  the  connection  of  the 
latter,  if  any,  with  the  preceding  series. 

As  briefly  as  possible  these  points  must 
now  be  considered.  It  is  possible  that  in 
endeavouring  to  be  succinct,  the  writer 
may  appear  not  only  to  take  too  much  as 
indisputable,  but  also  to  assert  what  he 
has  to  say  with  an  air  of  dogmatism  :  if 
either  failing  be  apparent,  the  fault  should 
be  attributed  not  to  him  who  sins  unin- 
tentionally, but  to  the  mass  of  commentary 
he  has  waded  through,  in  the  atmosphere 
involving  which  he  has  for  some  time  past 
been  saturated.  To  one  who  looks  at  the 
moot  points  with  unprejudiced  eyes,  and 
with  some  necessary  knowledge  of  the 
88 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

social  manners  as  well  as  of  the  literature 
of  the  period  in  question,  so  much  of  what 
has  been  written  on  the  subject  seems 
such  mere  superfluity  of  foolishness  that  he 
almost  inevitably  comes  to  regard  points  of 
manifest  likelihood  as  points  of  irrefutable 
certainty.  Again,  there  is  not  room  in 
a  short  study  such  as  this  to  go  into 
ample  detail  in  support  of  asseverations  : 
students  will  find  what  they  want  in  the 
writings  of  Professor  Dowden  and  other 
accomplished  Shakespearean  scholars,  while 
ordinary  readers  must  be  content  to  accept 
in  faith  what  is  undoubtedly  representative 
of  the  most  recent  Shakespearean  criticism. 
For  this  I  am  indebted  to  Professor  Dowden, 
Mr.  Thomas  Tyler,  Professor  Minto,  and 
others  who  directly  or  indirectly  have 
afforded  me  valuable  data  to  work  upon. 
Especially  in  connection  with  Part  II.  of 
my  edition  of  the  sonnets  have  I  to 
acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  the  careful 
research  and  critical  acumen  displayed  in 
Mr.  Tyler's  introduction  to  the  photo-litho- 
graphic facsimile  of  the  sonnets  as  they 
appear  in  the  first  Quarto  (1609). 

(i)  The  Dedication.    The  opening  words 
have  themselves  been  productive  of  some 
misunderstanding.     The  onlie  begetter  :   not 
89 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

unnaturally  the  word  "  only  "  has  been  taken 
by  many,  unacquainted  with  the  change  in 
significance  which  so  many  of  our  words 
have  undergone,  to  mean  sole.  Its  real 
meaning  in  the  phrase  quoted  may  possibly, 
however,  be  "  matchless  "  or  "  incompar- 
able "  or  "  super- excellent,"  or  some  other 
such  superlative.  When  in  Sonnet  i.  Shake- 
speare speaks  of  "  the  only  herald  of  the  gaudy 
Spring  "  he  does  not  mean  "  sole  herald," 
but  "  most  welcome  "  or  "  incomparable," 
or  perhaps  "  chief."  Begetter  :  still  more 
is  misunderstanding  liable  to  be  caused  by 
this  word.  It  has  been  taken  to  signify  the 
person  who  procured  the  sonnets  for  the 
publisher  Thorpe,  "  the  only  procurer,  col- 
lector, begetter  "  (here  "  only  "  signifying 
"  sole  ").  As  Professor  Tyler  has  pointed 
out,  there  is  just  a  possibility  that  Thorpe 
meant  to  convey  to  their  problematical 
"  procurer  "  the  assurance  that  the  poet's 
promise  of  "  eternitie  "  would  be  literally 
fulfilled  unto  him  for  the  great  service  he 
had  rendered  to  literature  in  obtaining 
these  sonnets  for  publication.  But  neither 
Mr.  Tyler  nor  any  of  the  most  eminent 
recent  commentators  entertain  these  suppo- 
sitions. The  word  begetter  is  now  understood 
to  have  signified  originator,  source  of,  cause 
go 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

of.  When  in  Sonnet  xxxviii.  Shakespeare 
addresses  his  friend,  "Be  thou  the  tenth  Muse 
.  .  .  and  he  that  calls  on  thee,  let  him  bring 
forth  Eternal  numbers  to  outlive  long  date," 
the  reference  is  undoubtedly  the  same  as 
that  underlying  "  begetter."  "  The  onlie 
begetter  "  therefore  may  either  be  "  the  sole 
bringer  forth,  the  sole  cause  of,"  or  else 
"  the  incomparable  inspirer  "  of  "  these 
insuing  sonnets." 

(2)  The  Identity  of"  Mr.  W.  H."  Even  a 
superficial  reader  would — notwithstanding  a 
few  puzzling  expressions — speedily  gather 
that  Sonnets  i.  to  cxxvi.  were  addressed 
to  a  dearly  loved  male  friend  of  the  writer  : 
probably,  also,  that  they  constituted  a  more 
or  less  discernible  sequence.  Of  long  con- 
tinuance, and  characterised  by  a  great 
amount  of  argumentative  energy,  has  been 
the  debate  concerning  the  identity  of  this 
friend,  obscurely  shrouded  under  those 
puzzling  initials  which  Mr.  Thomas  Thorpe 
so  little  thought  were  doomed  to  be  the 
cause  of  such  an  amount  of  perplexed 
discussion. 

The  researches  of  critical  students  ulti- 
mately made  it  plain  that  the  Dedicatee 
must  have  been  one  of  two  men — Henry 
Wriothesley,  Earl  of  Southampton,  and 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

William  Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke.  It 
might  seem  easy  to  at  once  fix  upon  the  latter 
as  the  "  W.  H."  of  Mr.  Thorpe,  but  the  fact 
of  these  initials  corresponding  with  those 
of  Pembroke  is  by  no  means  sufficient  for 
identification.  I  shall  not  attempt  in  the 
limited  space  at  my  command  to  repeat 
all  the  pros  and  cons  on  either  side,  but  may 
at  once  state  that  though  many  influential 
commentators  have  considered  Southampton 
to  be  the  individual  referred  to,  it  is  now 
known,  almost  certainly  beyond  disproof, 
that  Shakespeare's  friend  was  William  Her- 
bert, Earl  of  Pembroke.  For  the  claims  of 
Lord  Southampton  it  may  briefly  be  said 
that  it  was  to  this  nobleman  (who  was  not 
more  than  nine  years  the  junior  of  the  poet) 
that  Shakespeare  in  1593  dedicated  his 
Venus  and  Adonis,  and  in  the  following 
year  his  Rape  of  Lucrece,  on  this  second 
occasion  using  dedicatory  words  of  such 
warmth  of  expression  as  nearly  to  coincide 
with  the  ardent  language  of  some  of  the  most 
directly  personal  of  the  sonnets.  Especially 
is  Sonnet  xxvi.  considered  more  like  the 
method  of  address  which  Shakespeare  would 
have  pursued  in  the  case  of  Lord  South- 
ampton, than  of  the  much  younger  and 
distinctly  less  staid  Earl  of  Pembroke. 
92 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

Again,  Shakespeare  in  this  preface  says 
plainly  to  his  older  friend,  "  What  I  have 
done  is  yours  ;  what  I  have  to  do  is  yours." 
As  for  the  fact  that  the  initials  in  Thorpe's 
dedication  are  "  W.  H."  and  not  "  H.  W.," 
it  has  been  contended  that  the  transposition 
was  intentional  and  was  meant  as  a  blind — 
a  rather  far-fetched  conclusion  certainly, 
considering  all  the  circumstances.  As  for 
the  "  Mr.,"  no  blind,  in  all  probability, 
was  thereby  meant.  The  prefix  at  that 
period  had  a  much  more  elastic  use  than 
now ;  examples  of  its  similar  employment 
could  easily  be  adduced — e.g.,  in  England's 
Parnassus  Lord  Buckhurst  appears  as 
Mr.  Sackville. 

But  an  overwhelming  amount  of  evidence 
— facts  of  minor  weight  mostly,  but  all 
tending  in  the  same  direction — renders 
it  as  nearly  indisputable  as  any  question 
can  be  without  absolutely  conclusive  evi- 
dence, that  the  "  W.  H."  of  the  sonnets 
was  the  Earl  of  Pembroke.  Any  remaining 
doubts  in  the  minds  of  those  who  have 
perused  the  lucid  arguments  of  Professor 
Minto  in  Characteristics  of  English  Poets 
(section on  "The  Elizabethan  Sonneteers"), 
of  Professor  Dowden,  and  others,  must  be 
removed  after  acquaintance  with  the  latest 
93 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

researches  as  set  forth  by  Mr.  Thomas 
Tyler  in  his  introduction  to  Mr.  Praetorius' 
Quarto-Facsimile.  Here  we  clearly  learn 
all  that  is  necessary  concerning  Pembroke's 
life, — his  friendship  with  Shakespeare,  his 
liaison  with  the  same  woman  who  at  one  time 
was  the  latter's  mistress  (certainly  in  the 
poetic,  and  only  less  certainly  in  the  more 
commonly  accepted  meaning  of  the  term) 
— that  mysterious  "  Dark  Woman,"  now  for 
the  first  time,  in  all  probability,  identified — 
his  Court  troubles,  his  public  career.  Sixteen 
years  younger  than  the  great  dramatist, 
brilliant  in  varied  accomplishments  and  in 
manners,  beautiful  and  well  worthy  of  the 
famous  race  with  whom  he  was  so  closely 
connected,  it  was  this  William  Herbert, 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  to  whom  as  "  the  real 
source  of  the  insuing  sonnets "  Thomas 
Thorpe,  with  or  without  the  knowledge  or 
consent  of  the  popular  nobleman  ^  his 
already  famous  friend,  inscribed  his  cele- 
brated dedication.  The  dedication,  there- 
fore, may  be  taken  to  read  thus  :  To  the  Sole 
Cause  (or  Incomparable  Inspirer)  of  these 
insuing  sonnets — Mr.  W[illiam]  H[erberf\ 
(Earl  of  Pembroke] — all  Happiness,  and 
that  Eternity  promised  by  our  immortal 
poet,  their  author,  wisheth  the  well-wishing 
94 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

"  adventurer "    in   issuing   them   in   printed 
form,  T[homas}  T[horpe]. 

(3)  To  Professor  Minto  is  due  the  dis- 
covery of  the  Rival  Poet  specially  referred 
to  by  Shakespeare  in  one  of  the  nine  sonnets 
(Ixxviii.-lxxxvi.)   dealing  with  the  preten- 
sions   of    other    bardic    aspirants    for    the 
favour  of  his  patron-friend.     Almost  every 
likely  writer  had  been  cited  as  the  "  better 
spirit  "  of  Sonnet  Ixxx.,   the  "  proud  full 
sail  of  whose  great  verse  "  threatened  to 
altogether  obliterate  from  notice  his  own 
"  saucy  bark."     Marlowe,  notwithstanding 
certain  indubitable  drawbacks  to  the  likeli- 
hood of  the  supposition,  and  Ben  Jonson, 
were  the  two  generally  considered  as  having 
claims    to   be    nominated    this    rival    poet. 
"  I  hope,"  says  Professor  Minto,  "  I  shall 
not  be  held  guilty  of  hunting  after  paradox 
if  I  say  that  every  possible  poet  has  been 
named  but  the  right  one,  nor  of  presump- 
tion if  I  say  that  he  is  so  obvious  that 
his  escape  from  notice  is   something   little 
short    of    miraculous."       With    conclusive 
argument    Mr.    Minto    then    proceeds    to 
prove   that    Chapman   was    this    poet,    a 
conclusion   now   accepted    by  all  students 
as  definite. 

(4)  The   arrangement   of  the   Sonnets   in 

95 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

groups.  It  may  be  broadly  taken  for  granted 
that  any  transposition  of  certain  groups 
of  the  sonnets  should  not  be  attempted. 
They  may,  as  they  stand,  be  productive 
of  no  inconsiderable  perplexity,  but  if  every 
commentator  had  his  way  the  confusion 
would  in  a  very  short  time  become  hopeless. 
The  example  of  Gerald  Massey  may  be 
held  forth  as  a  solemn  warning  ;  to  the 
meditative  student  none  could  be  more 
salutary. 

The  only  certain  division  is  that  of 
Sonnets  cxxvii.  to  clii.  from  the  126  pre- 
ceding :  as  yet,  perhaps,  the  only  defensible 
transposition  would  be  the  placement  of 
cxxvii.-clii.  before  and  not  after  the  longer 
series,  belonging  as  they  do  to  an  earlier 
period,  not  only  in  application,  but  as 
regards  composition  ;  moreover,  this  trans- 
position would  render  certain  portions  in 
the  subsequent  series  less  obscure,  and  would 
indeed  throw  a  flood  of  light  thereupon 
which  every  one  who  read  the  sonnets 
for  the  first  time  would  find  sufficiently 
illuminative.  Merely  as  a  matter  of  personal 
opinion  the  present  writer  would  like  to  see 
the  "  Dark  Woman  "  series  placed — as  an 
interlude — between  Sonnets  xxxix.  and  xl. 
Here  the  series  would  fit  in  with  peculiar 
96 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

applicability.  In  one  or  two  of  the  immedi- 
ately preceding  sonnets  (especially  No.  xxxv.) 
there  are  foreshado wings  of  what  is  taking, 
or  has  taken,  place ;  then  would  come  the 
long  passion  poem,  revealing  everything  to 
the  sympathetic  reader :  and,  thereafter, 
the  reproachful,  forgiving,  warning,  con- 
soling, beseeching  series  from  xl.  to  xciv., 
concluding  with  the  sonnets  of  Reconcilia- 
tion, Nos.  c.  to  cxxvi.  Certainly,  if  I  had 
ventured  to  interfere  with  the  universally 
accepted  numerical  sequence,  this  is  the 
order  which  I  should"  have  adopted. 

The  following  divisional  arrangement  of 
the  series  addressed  to  "  W.  H."  is  to 
some  extent  based  on  that  of  Mr.  Armitage 
Brown,  on  that  of  Dr.  Furnivall  in  the 
Leopold  Shakespeare,  and  on  that  of  Mr. 
Tyler  in  his  Introduction  ;  as  for  the 
headings  of  the  groups,  these  may  be  altered 
by  any  reader  where  found  unsatisfactory. 

i.-xvii.  Of     Persuasion     (to     his     friend 

"  W.   H."   to  marry   and  per- 
petuate his  beauty  and  race). 

xviii.-xxxiii.       Of  Shakespeare's  ardent  friendship 
for  "  W.  H." 

xxxiv.-xxxix.     Of  Renunciation. 

xl.-lviii.  Of    Excuse,    Love    in    Absence, 

Promised  Immortality  of  Fame, 
and  Remonstrance. 
II  97  G 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

lix.-lx.  Of  Oblivion. 

Ixi.-lxv.  Of  Suffering  through  Love,  and 

of  Apprehension. 

Ixvi.  Of  Deep  Weariness. 

Ixvii.-lxviii.        Of  Contemplative  Regret. 

Ixix.-lxx.  Of  Evil  Rumours  concerning 

"  W.  H." 

Ixxi.-lxxiv.  Of  Inevitable  Death  and  Enduring 
Love. 

Ixxv.-lxxvii.  Of  the  Monotony  of  Love's  Lan- 
guage, and  of  advice  to  "  W.  H." 
as  how  best  to  fill  up  an  accom- 
panying present  of  a  book  of 
blank  leaves. 

Ixxviii.-lxxxvii.  Concerning  certain  rival  poetic 
aspirants  for  the  supreme 
favour  of  "  W.  H." 

Ixxxviii.-xcix.  Of  Estrangement ;  of  Rebuke  con- 
cerning Libertinism  ;  and  of 
Reproachful  Pleading. 

c.-cxxvi.  Of  Reconciliation  after  Separa- 

tion ;  of  Assurance  of  Fame  ; 
of  Marriage  (cxvi.)  ;  of  Con- 
fession, and  of  Rumours  (cxix.- 
cxxi.)  ;  Envoy. 

(5)  The  Identity  of  the  Inspirer  of 
cxxvii.-clii.  The  identity  of  the  woman 
who  for  a  season  exercised  so  potent  a  spell 
on  Shakespeare  has  for  long  remained  a 
complete  mystery ;  while  conjecture  was 
possible,  discovery  seemed  as  hopeless  as 
ascertainment  of  "  what  song  the  syrens 
sang."  Even  so  recent  and  so  accomplished 
98 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

an  authority  as  Professor  Dowden  has 
written  :  "  We  shall  never  discover  the  name 
of  the  woman  who  for  a  season  could 
sound,  as  no  one  else,  the  instrument  of 
Shakespeare's  heart  from  the  lowest  note 
to  the  top  of  the  compass.  To  the  eyes  of 
no  diver  among  the  wrecks  of  time  will 
that  curious  talisman  gleam."  But  that 
curious  talisman  has  been  revealed  to  the 
vision  of  Mr.  Tyler ;  he,  and  the  Rev.  W.  A. 
Harrison,  and,  indirectly,  the  late  Rev. 
F.  C.  Fitton,  have  solved  an  apparently 
inscrutable  enigma.  I  cannot  here  repeat 
or  even  give  a  digest  of  all  they  have  to  say 
on  this  interesting  subject,  and  it  must 
suffice  to  affirm  that  it  is  now  established, 
probably  beyond  disproof,  that  the  woman 
who  was  the  mistress  first  of  Shakespeare 
and  then  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  was  known 
as  Mrs.  Mary  Fitton.  Mary  Fitton,  or 
Ffitton,  of  good  parentage,  was  born  in 
1578,  so  that  she  would  be  about  seventeen 
when  Shakespeare  first  saw  her,  or  between 
eighteen  and  nineteen  when  the  liaison 
may  have  occurred  (possibly  it  was  consider- 
ably later),  a  conjecture  founded  on  the  fact 
that  Love's  Labour's  Lost  (containing  allusive 
sonnets)  was  played  at  the  Christmas  of 
1597.  Whether  she  favoured  Shakespeare 
99 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

while  still  unmarried  is  uncertain  ;  the 
strong  probability  is  that  it  was  while  she 
was  simply  Mary  Fitton.  This  fascinating 
woman  was  one  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  maids- 
of-honour.  Her  first  husband  was  a  Captain 
Lougher,  though  it  was  possibly  before  this 
that  she  scandalised  the  Court  by  being 
proved  with  child  by  the  young  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  who,  while  confessing  the  fact, 
utterly  renounced  all  marriage.  Mr.  Tyler 
suggests  the  possibility  that  she  had  been 
married  in  very  early  youth,  a  manage  de 
convenance,  in  support  of  the  existence 
of  which  he  adduces  strong  evidence.  If 
so,  she  must  have  secured  a  divorce  on  the 
legal  point  noted  by  Mr.  Tyler,  otherwise 
Pembroke  would  have  had  no  need  to 
declare  his  resolution  not  to  marry  Mary 
Fitton.  The  date  of  this  scandal  was 
1601,  a  circumstance  which  tends  to  prove 
that  the  woman-sonnets  were  written  at 
varying  periods,  and  that  Pembroke  found 
passion  a  stronger  force  than  the  loyalty 
of  friendship.  The  case  would  seem  to  be 
that  Sir  Edward  Fitton,  while  in  Ireland 
on  political  duty,  arranged  for  his  young 
daughter's  marriage  with  a  Captain  Lougher  ; 
that  this  marriage  was  solemnised,  but  after- 
wards annulled  on  account  of  some  irregu- 
100 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

larity  in  money  matters ;  that  while  in 
London,  after  her  father's  return,  Mary 
Fitton  (having  renounced  the  name  of 
Lougher)  saw  Shakespeare  acting,  or  other- 
wise made  his  acquaintance  ;  entertained 
a  fancy  and  possibly  a  passion  for  him  ; 
later  on  allowed  Pembroke  to  take  Shake- 
speare's place,  and  became  mother  of  a  child 
by  the  former  ;  got  into  disgrace  with  the 
Queen  ;  transferred  her  favours  to  Sir  Richard 
Leveson,  knight,  by  whom  she  had  two 
illegitimate  children  ;  and  finally  married  her 
second  husband,  a  Captain  (or  Mr.)  Polwhele. 
These  circumstances  are  in  themselves 
sufficient  to  prove  that  Mary  Fitton  was 
if  not  a  woman  of  rare  beauty  at  any  rate 
one  of  extraordinary  fascination.  We  know 
(cxxviii.)  that  she  was  a  skilled  musician  on 
the  virginal,  surely  a  certain  way  to  touch  the 
heart  of  Shakespeare,  the  poet  who  of  all 
others  has  written  with  most  emphasis  and 
unmistakable  sincerity  of  music  ;  that  she 
had  lovely  eyes,  dark  and  with  that  pathos 
generally  accompanying  depth — 

A  nd  truly  not  the  morning  sun  of  heaven 
Better  becomes  the  grey  cheeks  of  the  east, 
Nor  that  full  star  that  ushers  in  the  even 
Doth  half  that  glory  to  the  sober  west, 
As  those  two  mourning  eyes  become  thy 
face — 

101 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

and  that  her  mouth  was  formed  for  sweet 
speech  and  lover's  kisses  : 

Those  lips  that  Love's  own  hand  did  make. 

The  bitter  emphasis  of  lines  13,  14  in  cxlvii. 
and  lines  13,  14  in  clii.  do  not  of  necessity 
point  to  anything  repellent  in  her  features  or 
expression.  The  word  "fair"  in  both  instances 
probably  refers  more  to  her  real,  her  inner 
nature  than  to  her  external  appearance ; 
but,  even  if  taken  literally,  Shakespeare's 
words  would  simply  mean  that  having 
addressed  her  on  occasions  in  the  stereo- 
typed complimentary  phraseology  of  the 
time,  calling  her  fair  when  she  was  really 
dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  and  olive- com- 
plexioned,  he  privately  denounces  his  own 
forswearing,  once  that  the  glamour  of  passion 
has  been  wholly  or  almost  wholly  dissipated. 
Professor  Minto  argues  well  for  his  theory  that 
the  "  Dark  Woman  "  series  was  the  outcome 
of  a  spirit  of  mockery  or  defiance  of  con- 
ventional mistress-sonneteering,  intensified 
here  and  there  into  seeming  vivid  reality 
of  emotion  through  the  writer's  essentially 
dramatic  genius  ;  but  it  is  hardly  likely 
that  he  will  gain  wide  support  in  this  view, 
quite  possible  as  it  certainly  is.  With  Pro- 
fessor Dowden  we  may  conjecture  whether  we 
102 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

do  not  in  some  measure  owe  Cleopatra  to 
this  strange  passion  of  Shakespeare  :  surely, 
the  woman  he  so  loved,  the  woman 
of  whom  he  sometimes  wrote  so  bitterly 
(see  especially  the  lines  entitled  "  A 
Woman  "  among  his  Poems),  must  have 
coloured  many  of  his  conceptions  of  women 
and  women's  ways  ?  It  seems  to  me  a 
great  mistake  to  consider  the  heroine  of 
the  sonnets  as  a  woman  destitute  of  beauty 
— Mr.  Tyler  would  even  have  it,  without 
the  charm  of  a  soft  or  pleasing  voice — 
simply  because  of  Shakespeare's  allusion 
to  her  blackness  or  darkness  of  complexion  ; 
a  black  beauty,  as  has  been  pointed  out  by 
A.  Hillard,  was  a  phrase  universally  used  to 
express  a  brunette  as  late  even  as  the  age 
of  Queen  Anne.  A  beautiful,  certainly  a 
fascinating  "  brunette  "  she  must  have 
been.  The  debatable  Sonnet  cxxx.  must 
not  be  taken  as  expressive  of  deficiencies  in 
beauty  and  manners  on  the  part  of  Shake- 
speare's mistress  :  there,  in  a  spirit  of  irony 
as  much  as  of  earnestness,  he  wrote  literal 
truth,  yet  with  a  saving  clause  that  trans- 
formed all  he  had  said — negatived  his  nega- 
tives, so  to  speak. 

On   the   sonnets   themselves   I  need   not 
now  expatiate,  great  though  the  temptation 
103 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

may  be.  Briefly  it  may  be  noted,  as  regards 
their  metrical  structure,  that  much  has  been 
inconsiderately  written  concerning  the  in- 
efficiency of  the  Shakespearean  as  compared 
with  other  sonnet-forms..  The  greatest  of 
sonneteers  since  Shakespeare — one,  moreover, 
who  himself  seldom  adopted  the  model  of 
the  master-poet  he  so  intensely  admired — 
declared  that  "  conception — FUNDAMENTAL 
BRAIN- WORK — is  what  makes  the  difference 
in  all  art.  .  .  .A  Shakespearean  sonnet  is 
better  than  the  most  perfect  in  form,  because 
Shakespeare  wrote  it."  In  confirmation  of 
this  dictum  of  Rossetti,  I  quote  the  words  of 
the  chief  living  authority  on  the  "sonnet," 
Theodore  Watts-Dunton,  who,  after  object- 
ing to  Mark  Pattison's  strange  assertion 
that  Shakespeare's  selection  of  the  sonnet- 
form  was  an  unfortunate  choice  of  vehicle, 
and  after  justly  referring  to  Sonnet  cxxix. 
(The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame] 
as  the  greatest  in  the  world,  proceeds : 
"  The  quest  of  the  Shakespearean  sonnet  is 
not,  like  that  of  the  form  adopted  by 
Milton,  sonority,  and,  so  to  speak,  metrical 
counterpoint,  but  sweetness ;  and  the 
sweetest  of  all  possible  arrangements  in 
English  versification  is  a  succession  of  deca- 
syllabic quatrains  in  alternate  rhymes  knit 
104 


Shakespeare's  Sonnets 

together,  and  clinched  by  a  couplet — a 
couplet  coming  not  too  far  from  the  initial 
verse  to  lose  its  binding  power,  and  yet 
not  too  near  the  initial  verse  for  the 
ring  of  epigram  to  disturb  the  '  linked 
sweetness  long  drawn  out  '  of  this  move- 
ment, but  sufficiently  near  to  shed  its 
influence  over  the  poem  back  to  the  initial 
verse." 

Veritably,  to  use  Shakespeare's  own  phrase, 
these  "  deep-brained  sonnets  "  are  a  legacy 
of  inestimable  value. 

Subtle  as  Sphinx  ;   as  sweet  and  musical 
As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair  ; 
A  nd  when  Love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 
Make  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 

Their  sonority,  their  grandeur,  their  beauty, 
their  deep-reaching  music  and  subtle  human 
"  reverberations,"  are  ours  whensoever  we 
will ;  but  still  more  may  we  find  strength 
and  refreshment  in  the  great  nature  they 
reveal — self-abnegating,  loyal,  reaching  down 
from  the  heights  of  supremity  with  a  humi- 
lity that  has  in  it  something  of  pathos  as 
well  as  of  spiritual  nobility. 

1885 

105 


GREAT  ODES 

THE  ode  is  the  most  unpopular  of  all 
poetic  forms  :  exceptions  such  as  Milton's 
Hymn  on  the  Nativity,  for  example,  and  the 
odes  of  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Keats,  and 
Wordsworth  are  loved  by  virtue  of  their 
own  beauty,  and  not  for  their  more  or 
less  close  resemblance  to  certain  irregular 
stanzaic  poems  which  have  come  to  be 
regarded  as  typical  odes.  The  very  word, 
to  the  ear  of  the  general  reader,  seems  to  carry 
with  it  some  suggestion  either  of  affected 
sentiment,  inflated  diction,  or  both  in 
unhappy  union.  But,  besides  this  common 
and  by  no  means  unjustifiable  prejudice, 
there  is  much  uncertainty  as  to  what  an 
ode  is.  If  Dryden's  Alexander's  Feast  be 
one,  how  can  we  fitly  class  with  it,  for 
example,  Coleridge's  Ode  to  France  or 
Shelley's  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  P  Poets 
themselves  are  generally  as  much  at  sea 
in  their  definitions  as  is  the  ordinary  reader, 
and  will  freely  accept  as  an  ode  anything 
106 


Great  Odes 

between  the  irregular  stanzaic  outpourings 
of  Cowley,  or  Pope's  merely  rhetorical 
St.  Cecilia's  Day,  and  Shelley's  impassioned, 
outwelling  lyric  To  a  Skylark. 

With  the  Pindaric  ode  it  is  needless  to 
concern  ourselves.  Completely  misappre- 
hended at  first,  and,  later,  arbitrarily  and 
mistakenly  raised  as  a  fixed  model,  its 
influence,  such  as  it  is,  has  been  almost 
entirely  harmful.  The  true  Pindaric  ode 
has  all  the  regularity  of  tjdal  music  in  its 
swelling  strains  ;  the  conventional  Anglo- 
Pindaric  ode  is  merely  a  series  of  irregular 
metres,  arbitrarily  separated  into  strophe, 
antistrophe,  and  epode,  or,  equally  arbi- 
trarily, into  irregular  stanzas.  Each  ode 
of  Pindar  has  its  own  music,  as  each  conch 
stranded  by  the  waves  has  its  own  forlorn 
vibration  of  the  sea's  rhythm  ;  whereas  the 
so-called  Pindaric  odes  of  Cowley  and  his 
imitators  have  no  more  individuality  of 
music  than  have  the  exercises  of  instru- 
mentalists in  contradistinction  to  the  com- 
positions of  musicians.  It  would  seem  as 
though  the  ode,  whenever  modelled  more 
or  less  closely  upon  the  conventional  type, 
loses  all  spontaneity,  all  freedom  of  move- 
ment :  it  is  as  though  we  were  conscious  of 
the  poet  singing.  The  supreme  quality  of 
107 


Great  Odes 

lyrical  music  is  its  inevitableness.  Words- 
worth's great  irregular  Ode  on  the  Intimations 
of  Immortality  fails  in  rhythmic  effect  just 
where  he  adopts  an  arbitrary  metrical 
system — where  there  is  no  seduction  of  the 
ear,  because  not  a  line  is  inevitable  : 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral  ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song  : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

A  nd  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part  ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage  " 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Here  Wordsworth,  conscious  that  he  was 
writing  an  ode,  evidently  believed  that  if  he 
did  not  frequently  interpolate  such  short 
accidental  measures  as  those  quoted,  he 
would  produce  a  poem,  but  not  distinctively 
an  ode.  It  is  the  freedom  from  any  unfor- 
tunate convention  that  makes  his  Ode  to 
Duty  so  supremely  fine — an  ode  in  which 
there  is  not  a  stanza,  not  a  line  even,  which 
would  have  satisfied  the  eighteenth-century 
108 


Great  Odes 

poets  and  critics.  Yet  what  lofty  beauty  in 
this  ode  of  seven  eight-line  stanzas  : 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
A  s  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  ; 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds  ; 
A  nd  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  (he  most  ancient  heavens,  through  thee, 
are  fresh  and  strong. 

After    this    dignified    reticence,    what    a 
babbling  there  seems  in  : 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 

It  is  here,  at  once,  that  we  reach  the 
primary  rule  which  should  guide  the  poet. 
Let  him  give  himself  up  to  his  poetic 
instinct,  which  is  the  same  thing  as  saying 
that  he  should  let  his  rhythmic  emotion 
dominate  his  critical  heed  of  metrical 
propriety.  We  may  be  sure  that,  in  the 
fulfilment  of  this  rule,  there  will  be  no  more 
Anglo-Pindaric  odes. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  drearier 

yoltime  of  verse  than  one  composed  of  odes 

of  the  conventional  type.     Fine,  even,  as 

is  Dryden's  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  how  false  its 

109 


Great  Odes 

metallic  music  seems  compared  with  that 
which  is  produced  under  no  superficial  law 
of  conventional  propriety,  but  under  the 
deeper  law  of  shaping  emotion !  Still,  if 
the  term  could  be  applied  only  to  poems  of 
this  class,  they  would  have  to  be  accepted 
on  their  own  merits.  But  the  word  is  no 
more  thrall  to  one  species  of  verse  than  to 
another,  and  a  volume  of  fine  odes  might  be 
compiled  which  would  not  include  a  single 
example  of  the  Pindaric  or  pseudo-Pindaric 
type.  An  ode  was  originally  a  lyrical  com- 
position, a  song.  When,  with  the  cessation 
of  the  choric  chant,  the  strophe,  anti- 
strophe,  and  epode  lost  their  musical  value, 
the  divisions  became  arbitrary.  The  ancient 
choral  lyric,  which  had  been  accompanied 
by  music,  was  no  longer  the  same  thing  when 
it  came  to  be  privily  read  instead  of  publicly 
chanted.  Thenceforth  lyrical  poetry  was 
not  verse  indissociable  from  the  sympa- 
thetic strains  of  the  lyre  or  other  instru- 
ment, or  the  human  voice,  but  gradually 
attained  a  music  of  its  own :  a  music  in  a 
sense  allied  to,  but  practically  distinct 
from,  vocal  or  instrumental  melody.  So, 
now,  a  "  lyric  "  does  not  mean  a  poem  %» 
singing  :  most  of  our  finest  lyrics,  indeed, 
are  beyond  the  compass  of  the  singer, 
no 


Great  Odes 

Poems  so  unlike  each  other  in  rapidity  and 
buoyancy  of  movement  as  Shelley's  Cloud 
and  Keats'  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  are, 
the  one  as  much  as  the  other,  entitled  to 
be  called  lyrics,  though  they  could  not  be 
sung.  On  the  other  hand,  many  of  the 
truest  lyrics  by  Heine,  Beranger,  and  Burns 
are  also  true  songs.  But,  by  common 
consent,  the  term  "  ode "  is  never  now 
applied  to  a  lyrical  composition  intended 
to  be  set  to  music.  That  the  word  cannot 
be  restricted  to  a  solemn  or  grandiose 
theme,  treated  with  sedate  harmony,  would 
seem  demonstrable  ;  otherwise,  for  example, 
that  swift  and  impassioned  lyric,  the  Ode 
to  the  West  Wind,  could  not  be  classed  with, 
say,  the  Ode  to  Duty. 

What  then  is,  or  should  be,  an  ode  :  an 
English  ode,  for  English  poets  ?  Surely  it 
must  be  commonly  agreed  that,  as  we  have 
no  classic  model,  or  none  suitable,  we  cannot 
determine  any  metrical  form  as  one  pre- 
eminently worthy  to  be  distinguished  as  The 
Ode.  As  an  ode  is  no  longer  a  poem  to  be 
chanted,  and  is  not  a  lyric  to  be  sung,  shall 
it  be  called  simply  a  lyric  ?  This,  of  course, 
would  be  inadequate :  for  many  poems, 
of  an  absolutely  distinct  nature  (though 
with  a  common  fundamental  principle), 
in 


Great  Odes 

are  comprised  under  the   generic  name  of 
lyric. 

Each  of  us  expects  in  an  ode,  whether  it 
consist  of  a  set  of  irregular  stanzaic  divisions 
or  of  a  regular  series  of  regular  stanzas 
(the  only  primary  distinctions  now  recog- 
nised), a  dignity  and  even  solemnity  of 
beauty  in  expression,  in  harmony  with  a 
theme  lofty  in  itself,  or  of  worthy  purport. 
It  does  not  follow,  however,  that  every 
loftily-fine  lyrical  poem  with  a  nobly  com- 
pulsive theme  is  an  ode  ;  otherwise  Emily 
Bronte's  Last  Lines  would  have  as  much 
claim  to  be  so  classed  as  Milton's  Hymn  on 
the  Nativity.  Here,  at  once,  we  have  a  clue. 
The  Nativity  is  a  lyrical  poem  to  be  distin- 
guished as  an  ode  because  it  is  not  a  lyric 
in  the  sense  of  being  an  impulsive,  irre- 
pressible, individual  outcry,  a  purely  per- 
sonal utterance  ;  whereas  the  Last  Lines, 
or  Shelley's  Stanzas  written  in  Dejection, 
Heine's  Wenn  ich  in  deine  Augen  seh',  or 
Burns'  Ae  fond  kiss,  Wordsworth's  / 
wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,  or  Tennyson's 
Tears,  idle  tears,  are  not  odes,  though  an  ode 
is  a  lyric,  by  virtue  of  their  acutely  personal 
note.  But,  again,  mere  impersonality  is 
not  the  sole  distinguishing  factor,  otherwise 
scpjres  of  familiar  lyrics  would  be  odes. 
112 


Great  Odes 

I  remember   hearing   an   eminent   critic 
define  the  modern  ode  as  "  a  slow  lyric." 
But  this,  as  we  have  seen,  is  not  enough. 
It  must  be,  first  of  all,  not  only  a  "  slow  " 
but  a  majestic  lyric  :    its  measures  must 
move    with   dignity   and   grandeur,    or   at 
least  with  a  stately  beauty  that  is  serene 
rather  than  impassioned.    Then  it  must  be 
impersonal,  in  the  sense  that  it  must  not 
be   a   direct   personal    outcry,    though,    in 
common  with  all  true  poetry,  it  must  be 
absolutely  individualistic  in  utterance.   Just 
as   there   are   motives   which   can   be   best 
expressed  in  the  blank-verse  epic,  in  the 
heroic-couplet  narrative,  in  the  ballad,  the 
sonnet,  or  the  quatrain,  so  there  are  motives 
which  can  best  be  expressed  in  the  ode,  or 
in  what  may  be  called  odic  measures.    But 
that  high  sentiment  cannot  alone  justify  the 
claim  to  be  an  ode  may  be  shown  by  example. 
Among  all  our  Victorian  poets  none  is  or 
was  so  fitted  for  the  writing  of  odic  poems 
as    Matthew   Arnold.     Many   of   his    com- 
positions are,  in  the  truest  sense,  odes.     He 
loved  a  slow,  stately  sweep  of  verse,  or  a 
not  less  dignified  brevity  of  metre,  and  his 
poetic  emotion  had  keenest  insight  when, 
like    the    condor,    it    moved    in    calm    and 
serene  flight  far  above  the  highest  summits 

II  113  H 


Great  Odes 

of  the  moods  and  passions  of  the  moment. 
There  is  a  very  noble  poem  of  his  which, 
though  in  a  sense  personal,  is  only  relatively 
so  :  it  is  lofty  in  sentiment  and  lofty  in 
expression.  It  is  the  poem  Morality,  fit 
comrade  for  Wordsworth's  Duty. 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 

The  fire  which  in  the  hearth  resides, 

The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still, 

In  mystery  our  soul  abides  ; 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfill' d. 

Thus  it  begins,  and  mounts  to  a  higher 
music  when  Nature  delivers  her  message, 
closing  with  the  rapt  lines  : 

/  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  time, 

Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  space  ; 

I  felt  it  in  some  other  clime  ! 

I  saw  it  in  some  other  place  ! 

'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 
A  nd  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God. 

A  few  pages  before  Morality  in  Matthew 
Arnold's  poetical  works  occurs  a  poem 
which  is  truly  an  ode,  In  Utrumque 
Paratus  : 

If  in  the  silent  mind  of  One  all-pure 

At  first  imagined  lay 
The  sacred  world,  and  by  procession  sure 


Great  Odes 

From  those  still  deeps,  in  form  and  colour  drest, 

Seasons  alternating,  and  night  and  day, 

The  long  mused  thought  to  north,  south,  east,  and 

west, 
Took  them  its  all-seen  way  ; 

O  waking  on  a  world  which  thus-wise  springs  I 

Whether  it  needs  thee  count 
Betwixt  thy  waking  and  the  birth  of  things 
Ages  or  hours — O  waking  on  life's  stream  / 
By  lonely  pureness  to  the  all-pure  fount 
(Only  by  this  thou  canst)  the  colour 'd  dream 

Of  life  remount ! 

Thin,  thin  the  pleasant  human  noises  grow, 

And  faint  the  city  gleams, 
Rare  the  lone  pastoral  huts  ;  marvel  not  thou  ! 
The  solemn  peaks  but  to  the  stars  are  known, 
But  to  the  stars,  and  the  cold  lunar  beams  ; 
Alone  the  sun  arises,  and  alone 

Spring  the  great  streams. 


O  man,  whom  Earth,  thy  long-vex t  mother,  bare 
Not  without  joy,  so  radiant,  so  endow' d 
(Such  happy  issue  crown'd  her  painful  care)  ! 
Be  not  too  proud  ! 

Thy  native  world  stirs  at  thy  feet  unknown, 

Yet  there  thy  secret  lies  ! 
Out  of  this  stuff,  these  forces,  thou  art  grown, 
And  proud  self-severance  from  them  were 

Disease. 

O  scan  thy  native  world  with  pious  eyes  ! 
High  as  thy  life  be  risen,  'tis  from  these  ; 

And  these,  too,  rise. 


Great  Odes 

Why  may  this  fine  poem  be  called  an  ode, 
this  and  the  short  measured  Bacchanalia  and 
several  other  familiar  poems  by  Matthew 
Arnold,. and  the  term  be  denied  to  Morality  ? 
Both  deal  with  a  lofty  subject,  and  each  has 
a  gracious  serenity  of  utterance.  Does  a  too 
great  simplicity  of  rhyme-scheme  modify  the 
grandiose  impression  which  an  ode  should 
afford  ?  If  so,  Wordsworth's  Ode  to  Duty 
would  surely  come  under  the  ban.  Is  it 
not,  really,  that  the  utterance  is  more  of 
individual  than  general  import  ?  "An  ode 
is  a  poem  in  irregular  rhymed  stanzas 
with  abruptly  varying  metres,  or  series  of 
regular-rhymed  decasyllabic  stanzas,"  says 
one  authority ;  but  neither  rhyme  nor  con- 
formity with  any  stanzaic  arrangement  is 
actually  necessary,  still  less  a  decasyllabic 
uniformity.  Collins's  beautiful  Ode  to 
Evening  consists  of  a  series  not  merely 
of  quatrains,  but  of  unrhymed  quatrains. 
To  return  to  Matthew  Arnold  :  the 
poem  entitled  The  Future  is  really  an 
ode,  though  it  depends  upon  assonance 
instead  of  rhyme,  and  is  irregular  in  its 
divisions  : 

Haply,  the  river  of  Time, 

A  s  it  grows,  as  the  towns  on  its  marge 

Fling  their  wavering  lights 

116 


Great  Odes 

On  a  wider,  statelier  stream — 

May  acquire,  if  not  the  calm 

Of  its  early  mountainous  shore, 

Yet  a  solemn  peace  of  its  own. 

And  the  width  of  the  waters,  the  hush 

Of  the  grey  expanse  where  he  floats, 

Freshening  its  current  and  spotted  with  foam 

As  it  draws  to  the  Ocean,  may  strike 

Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on  its  breast, 

As  the  pale  waste  widens  around  him — 

A  s  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away — 

As  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night-wind 

Brings  up  the  stream 

Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  Sea. 

Morality,  again,  is  not  a  swift  lyric,  but  it 
is  clear  that  it  has  not  throughout  that  slow 
majestic  phrasing  which  would  seem  to  be 
the  first  essential  of  odic  metres.  This  brings 
us  to  the  point,  can  "  swift  "  lyrics  be  aptly 
described  as  odes  ? 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  term 
would  be  almost  meaningless  if  it  were 
allowed  to  comprise  every  lyrical  form.  If 
the  ode  be  at  once  "  a  high  remote  chant  " 
and  an  impassioned  apostrophe,  it  must 
cease  to  be  distinctive,  must  become  as 
liberal  a  term  as  "  lyric  "  itself.  Are  we  to 
call  the  Hymn  on  Christ's  Nativity  and  the 
Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  or  To  the  Skylark 
by  one  common  name  ?  Yet  each  has  been 
accepted  as  an  ode.  It  may  be  suggested 
117 


Great  Odes 

that  any  poem  finely  wrought  and  full  of 
high  thinking,  which  is  of  the  nature  of  an 
apostrophe  or  of  sustained  intellectual  medi- 
tation on  a  single  theme  of  general  purport, 
should  be  classed  as  an  ode.  This,  it  seems 
to  me,  may  fairly  be  accepted  if,  further, 
the  distinction  between  the  personal  and 
impersonal  lyric  be  observed,  and  if  it  be 
understood  that  the  form  must  neither  be 
narrative  nor  dramatic,  nor,  again,  be  of 
an  obtrusively  choric  nature. 

In  the  only  compilation  of  English  odes 
which  I  know,  that  edited  by  Mr.  Edmund 
Gosse,  there  will  be  found  sufficient  variety 
of  type  to  prove  the  aptness  of  any  complaint 
anent  the  uncertainty  as  to  what  is  or  is  not 
an  ode.  Mr.  Gosse  can  find  room  for  Prior's 
indifferent  and  merely  occasional  Ode  on  the 
Taking  of  Namur : 

Some  Folks  are  drunk,  yet  do  not  know  it : 

So  might  not  Bacchus  give  you  law  ? 
Was  it  a  muse,  O  lofty  Poet, 

Or  virgin  of  St.  Cyr,  you  saw  ? 
Why  all  this  fury  ?     What's  the  matter. 

That  oaks  must  come  from  Thrace  to  dance  ? 
Must  stupid  stocks  be  taught  to  flatter, 

And  is  there  no  such  wood  in  France  ?  &c. 

Nor  does  he  hesitate,  while  he  omits  Crashaw 

and,  among  the  moderns,  Hood,  to  include 

118 


Great  Odes 

Akenside's  amiable  but  commonplace  On 
Leaving  Holland,  Warton's  lines  on  the 
First  of  April  beginning  : 

With  dalliance  rude  young  Zephyr  woos 
Coy  May.     Full  oft  with  kind  excuse 
The  boisterous  boy  the  Fair  denies,  &c., 

and  Cowper's  episodical  poem  in  narrative- 
quatrains,  Boadicea,  ending  : 

She  with  all  a  monarch's  pride 

Felt  them  on  her  bosom  glow  ; 
Rushed  to  battle,  fought,  and  died  : 

Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

"  Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  award  the  vengeance  due  ; 

Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you." 

Of  course,  in  no  real  sense  are  these  com- 
positions odes,  either  after  a  classical  or 
pseudo-classical  model  or  in  the  most  liberal 
modern  interpretation.  Again,  though  poeti- 
cally of  better  worth,  three  other  poems 
which  Mr.  Gosse  includes  in  his  collection 
have  no  claim  to  be  called  odes  :  Lander's 
Lines  to  Joseph  Ablett,  Leyden's  fine  stanzas 
To  an  Indian  Gold  Coin,  and  Gray's  charming 
poem  On  the  Spring.  Yet  Mr.  Gosse  himself 
writes,  in  his  introduction  :  "  We  take  as 
an  ode  any  strain  of  enthusiastic  and  exalted 
lyrical  verse,  directed  to  a  fixed  purpose,  and 
119 


Great  Odes 

dealing    progressively    with    one    dignified 
theme." 

Perhaps  the  most  fatal  fault  the  ode  can 
have  is  to  be  narrative  in  form.  It  is  this 
that  vitiates  Gray's  Bard,  which,  in  our 
modern  sense  of  the  word,  is  not  an  ode  at 
all,  but  a  narrative  poem  of  a  declamatory 
kind.  If  The  Bard  be  an  ode,  then  Marmion 
is  simply  an  enlarged  example  of  the  same 
species.  For  this  reason  I  cannot  consider 
it  to  be  an  ode.  Indeed,  conclusive  evi- 
dence is  afforded  in  Mr.  Gosse's  book  that 
the  odes  written  more  or  less  closely  to  the 
supposedly  conventional  type  are  invari- 
ably inferior  to  those  regular  stanzaic  poems 
which  follow  a  natural  law.  It  is  not  merely 
the  difference  between  the  genius  of  Milton 
and  that  of  Cowley  which  constitutes  such 
a  gulf  between  the  opening  lines  of  Christ's 
Passion  and  the  Nativity.  After  the  majestic 
music  of  the  latter  how  artificial,  as  well  as 
how  commonplace,  sounds  : 

Enough,  my  Muse,  of  earthly  things, 
And  inspirations  but  of  mind, 
Take  up  thy  lute  and  to  it  bind 
Loud  and  everlasting  strings  ; 
And  on  them  play,  and  to  them  sing, 
The  happy  mournful  stories, 
The  lamented  glories 
Of  the  great  Crucified  King  ! 
120 


Great  Odes 

Mountainous  heap  of  wonders,  which  dost  rise 

Till  earth  thou  joinest  with  the  skies  ! 
Too  large  at  bottom  and  at  top  too  high 

To  be  half  seen  by  mortal  eye  ; 

How  shall  I  grasp  this  boundless  thing  ? 

What  shall  I  play  ?     What  shall  I  sing  ? 
I'll  sing  the  mighty  riddle  of  mysterious  love, 
Which  neither  wretched  man  below,  nor  blessed  spirits 
above 

With  all  their  comments  can  explain 
How  all  the  whole  world's  Life  to  die  did  not 
'  'v'      disdain. 

Odes,  whether  irregular  or  regular,  may 
broadly  be  divided  into  three  kinds — those 
which  deal  loftily  with  lofty  themes  of  a 
more  or  less  abstract,  or  at  any  rate  imper- 
sonal nature ;  those  which  are  Elegiac ; 
and  those  which  are  Nuptial.  There  are 
several  Nuptial  odes  which  have  high 
qualities,  but  there  is  only  one  that  stands 
out  supremely  fine — the  noble  Epithalamium 
of  Spenser.  This  is  not  only  our  first 
great  ode,  but  the  most  splendid  marriage- 
hymn  in  our  language. 

The  Elegiac  odes  hold  a  place  apart. 
Properly,  they  should  be  strictly  elegiacal — 
odes  of  mourning.  The  most  remarkable 
modern  example  of  this  species  of  verse 
is  Tennyson's  monody  on  the  death 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  One  of  the 

121 


Great  Odes 

earliest,  and  certainly  not  one  of  the  least 
beautiful,  is  that  of  Dryden,  inscribed 
To  the  Pious  Memory  of  Mrs.  Anne  Killigrew. 
Thy r sis,  again,  is  one  of  the  finest  of  modern 
elegiac  odes.  This  species  of  ode,  however, 
is  of  necessity  of  a  directly  personal  nature, 
and  so  is  outside  of  the  plan  of  this  volume. 

Among  the  first  kind,  the  true  English 
odes,  a  wide  metrical  licence  may  be  allowed, 
so  long  as  the  poems  are  in  truth  set  forth 
"  in  exalted  verse,  and  deal  progressively  with 
one  dignified  theme,"  yet  are  not  narrative, 
nor  impassioned  personal  outcries.  If  on 
the  one  hand  this  excludes  from  the  cate- 
gory of  odes  so  famous  an  example  as  The 
Bard,  so  also  are  excluded  those  exquisite 
lyrics  the  odes  To  the  West  Wind  and  To  a 
Skylark.  Both  the  latter  have  too  much 
of  the  lyric  cry  in  them  to  be  classed  even 
with  the  same  author's  odes  on  Liberty  and 
on  Naples. 

With  the  beautiful  Epithalamium,  or 
Marriage  Ode,  of  Spenser  may  be  classed 
two  from  Crashaw,  which  have  not  hitherto 
been  printed  as  odes.  To  them  may 
be  added  the  St.  Mary  Magdalene  of  the 
same  ardent  and  noble  poet.  In  common 
with  the  Ode  on  the  Passions  of  Collins,  and 
many  others  down  to  the  lengthy  and  in 
122 


Great  Odes 

one  sense  formless  odes  of  Emerson,  Cra- 
shaw's  are  not  divided  into  sections  or 
stanzas,  and  have  the  simplest  rhyme- 
scheme.  Milton's  "  majestic  numbers  " 
aptly  follow.  Indubitably  fine  as  is  Dryden's 
St.  Cecilia's  Day,  it  will  not  strike  the 
happiest  note  in  the  ode-music  of  which  it 
is  part ;  nor  do  even  such  masterpieces  as 
Gray's  Progress  of  Poesy  and  Collins 's  On 
the  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands  seem 
really  in  harmony  with  the  sweet  movement 
of  Spenser's  verse,  the  organ-tone  of  Milton's, 
the  noble  dignity  of  Wordsworth's,  the 
rhythmic  freedom  of  Coleridge's,  the  ardour 
of  Shelley's,  or  the  flawless  artistry  of  the 
odes  of  Keats.  Still,  as  the  finest  examples 
of  the  conventional  ode  (for  Wordsworth's 
Intimations  of  Immortality  is  conventional 
only  in  a  secondary  degree),  it  is  well  that 
they  should  be  included.  Yet  what  lover 
of  poetry  would  not  barter  a  score  of  such 
odes  as  the  two  celebrated  poems  of  Gray 
and  Collins  for  the  latter 's  lovely  unrhymed 
Ode  to  Evening  ? 

Wordsworth's  lines  to  Duty  constitute  one 
of  the  finest  odes  of  modern  literature, 
though  naturally  enough  the  Intimations  of 
Immortality  is  far  better  known.  In  some 
respects  the  longer  is  unquestionably  the 
123 


Great  Odes 

greater  poem,  but,  as  Mr.  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton  has  pointed  out  in  his  searching 
and  acute  essay  on  Poetry,  it  suffers  ever 
and  again  from  lack  of  that  inevitableness 
which  supreme  poetic  forms  invariably  and 
necessarily  possess.  If  I  had  to  select  a 
single  poem  as  the  model  of  the  ideal 
English  ode  it  would  be  Coleridge's  France, 
whose  superb  and  lordly  music  is  inspired 
by  a  lordly  and  superb  idea.  It  is  as  far 
above  the  Ode  of  the  Departing  Year  or  that 
on  Dejection  as  these  are  above  the  odes  of 
Wart  on  and  Akenside.  There  is  little  either 
of  the  classical  or  of  the  conventional  type 
in  the  glowing  odes  of  Shelley,  and  still  less 
of  either  in  the  perfect  stanzas  of  Keats, 
the  most  flawless  poems  of  their  kind  in 
the  language.  The  latest  among  the  writers 
of  the  immediate  past  from  whom  I  should 
select  an  ode  is  Thomas  Hood,  that  rare 
and  commonly  misunderstood  genius.  His 
Autumn  has  a  unique  beauty ;  the  lines 
beginning 

O  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair 

are  perfect.    Unfortunately  it  has  one  vital 

artistic  flaw,  the  presentment  of  Autumn  in 

the  first  stanza  as  an  old  man,  "  shaking 

124 


his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright  with 
tangled  gossamer,"  whereas  a  little  later 
Autumn  is  presented  to  us  in  the  guise  of  a 
beautiful  woman,  fair  but  weary.  Indeed, 
the  poet's  vision  was  doubly  veiled,  for 
there  is  an  obvious  contradiction  between 
the  verbal  picture  of  the  opening  lines, 
with  old  Autumn  standing  in  the  misty 
morn,  "  shadowless  like  Silence,"  and  "  lis- 
tening to  silence "  (in  itself  a  beautiful 
picture) — 

For  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn — 

and  that  of  the  gossamer  "  pearling  his 
coronet  of  golden  corn  "  :  for  the  time  of 
the  golden  corn  is  not  one  of  misty,  lifeless 
silence.  Among  the  Autumnal  odes  written 
by  later  poets  I  know  of  none  to  surpass 
that  by  Mr.  Aubrey  De  Vere,  which  would  be 
quoted  were  it  not  overlong. 

The  ode,  both  irregular  and  regular,  has 
been  a  favourite  means  of  expression  with 
many  of  the  foremost  American  poets, 
though  Poe,  by  virtue  of  his  genius  being 
in  its  utterance  more  lyrical,  literally,  than 
sedately  measured,  is  not  to  be  numbered 
among  them.  Longfellow,  again,  has  written 
few  poems  which  could  come  under  the 
125 


Great  Odes 

present  category.  Even  his  Palingenesis 
(which  is  included  in  my  Anthology)  has  too 
much  of  singing  melody  in  it  to  admit  of 
its  being  unreservedly  classed  as  an  ode. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  "  Father  of  American 
Poetry,"  as  Bryant  has  been  called,  was  by 
nature  an  ode-writer.  His  beautiful  lines 
To  a  Water-fowl  take  the  place  in  American 
poetry  occupied  by  Collins 's  To  Evening 
in  that  of  England.  The  Winds  and  The 
Hymn  of  the  City  are  also  fine  odes.  The 
critic  who  speaks  of  Emerson  as  a  poet  of 
high  order  is  no  longer  sneered  at,  and  so  I 
may  venture  to  state  that  some  of  his  poems 
are  very  noble  odes.  Bayard  Taylor,  notable 
poet  as  he  was,  had  seldom  the  serene  atmo- 
sphere and  more  rarely  still  the  deep  vision 
of  his  great  contemporary ;  but  some  of 
his  odes  are,  and  deservedly,  likely  to  be 
long  treasured  by  his  countrymen.  On  a 
higher  level  are  the  noble  strains  of  James 
Russell  Lowell,  unquestionably  one  of  the 
three  foremost  poets  whom  America  has 
produced.  It  is  the  highest  compliment 
that  could  be  paid  to  them  to  say  that 
his  odes  do  not  suffer  by  comparison  with 
their  kindred  by  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  ; 
and  among  other  modern  American  poets  I 
would  draw  particular  attention  to  Edmund 
126 


Great  Odes 

Clarence  Stedman,  whose  Ode  to  Pastoral 
Romance  is  perhaps  his  finest  achievement. 

Among  the  later  Victorian  poets  there 
are  many  who  have  written  odes — so  called, 
and  so  in  truth,  though  not  thus  entitled — 
and  a  few  who  have  written  poems  of  this 
kind  which  will  long  be  read  appreciatively, 
even  if  not  assured  of  perpetuity.  But 
Coventry  Patmore  is  the  only  poet  of  our 
day  who  has  preferred  the  ode  to  any  other 
form  for  habitual  expression.  But  over  and 
above  this  he  has,  like  an  ingenious  gardener 
who  has  evolved  a  new  and  graceful  flower 
from  a  familiar  stock,  made  a  new  kind 
of  verse,  or,  rather,  given  a  new  direction 
to  a  certain  kind  of  verse.  In  the  recent 
popular  edition  of  the  most  remarkable  of 
his  books,  The  Unknown  Eros,  and  other 
Odes,  all  his  poems  written  in  catalectic 
verse  are  included.  I  cannot  do  better  than 
quote  from  Coventry  Patmore 's  prefatory 
note  : 

"  Nearly  all  English  metres  owe  their 
existence  as  metres  to  '  catalexis,'  or  pause, 
for  the  time  of  one  or  more  feet,  and,  as  a 
rule,  the  position  and  amount  of  catalexis 
are  fixed.  But  the  verse  in  which  this  volume 
is  written  is  catalectic  par  excellence,  em- 
ploying the  pause  (as  it  does  the  rhyme) 
127 


Great  Odes 

with  freedom  only  limited  by  the  exigencies 
of  poetic  passion.  From  the  time  of  Drum- 
mond  of  Hawthornden  to  our  own,  some  of 
the  noblest  flights  of  English  poetry  have 
been  taken  on  the  wings  of  this  verse  ; 
but  with  ordinary  readers  it  has  been  more 
or  less  discredited  by  the  far  greater  number 
of  abortive  efforts,  on  the  part  sometimes 
of  considerable  poets,  to  adapt  it  to  purposes 
with  which  it  has  no  expressional  corre- 
spondence ;  or  to  vary  it  by  rhythmical 
movements  which  are  destructive  of  its 
character.  Some  persons,  unlearned  in  the 
subject  of  metre,  have  objected  to  this 
kind  of  verse  that  it  is  '  lawless.'  But  it  has 
its  laws  as  truly  as  any  other.  In  its  highest 
order,  the  lyric  or  '  ode,'  it  is  a  tetrameter, 
the  line  having  the  time  of  eight  iambics. 
When  it  descends  to  narrative,  or  the  ex- 
pression of  a  less-exalted  strain  of  thought, 
it  becomes  a  trimeter,  having  the  time  of 
six  iambics,  or  even  a  dimeter,  with  the 
time  of  four  ;  and  it  is  allowable  to  vary 
the  tetrameter  '  ode  '  by  occasional  intro- 
duction of  passages  in  either  or  both  of  these 
inferior  measures,  but  not,  I  think,  by  the 
use  of  any  other.  The  licence  to  rhyme 
at  indefinite  intervals  is  counterbalanced  in 
the  writing  of  all  poets  who  have  employed 
128 


Great  Odes 

this  metre  successfully,  by  unusual  frequency 
in  the  recurrence  of  the  same  rhyme.  For 
information  on  the  generally  overlooked 
but  primarily  important  function  of  catalexis 
in  English  verse,  I  refer  such  readers  as  may 
be  curious  about  the  subject  to  the  essay 
printed  as  an  appendix  to  the  later  editions 
of  my  collected  poems.  I  do  not  pretend 
to  have  done  more  than  very  moderate 
justice  to  the  exceeding  grace  and  dignity 
and  the  inexhaustible  expressiveness  of 
which  this  kind  of  metre  is  capable  ;  but  I 
can  say  that  I  have  never  attempted  to 
write  in  it  in  the  absence  of  that  one  justi- 
fication of  and  prime  qualification  for  its 
use,  namely,  the  impulse  of  some  thought 
that  '  voluntary  moved  harmonious  num- 
bers.' " 

Of  Patmore's  poems,  The  Unknown 
Eros  and  The  Day  after  To-morrow  are 
examples  of  the  longer,  and  Wind  and  Wave 
and  The  Body  of  the  shorter,  ode ;  while 
The  Contract  is  an  instance  of  an  ode 
wherein  poetic  dialogue  takes  the  place  of  the 
ancient  choric  strophe  and  antistrophe.  Two 
other  remarkable  odes  are  Delicice  Sapien- 
tice  de  Amore  and  Legem  tuam  Dilexi. 
There  is  a  new  music,  a  new  voice,  and,  to 
our  ears,  one  strange  almost  as  that  of 

II  129  i 


Great  Odes 

Crashaw  himself,  in  these  poems.  I  can 
find  space  for  a  few  lines  only  from  the 
second. 

For,  ah,  who  can  express 

How  full  of  bonds  and  simpleness 

Is  God, 

How  narrow  is  He, 

And  how  the  wide,  waste  field  of  possibility 

Is  only  trod 

Straight  to  His  homestead  in  the  human  heart, 

And  all  His  art 

Is  as  the  babe's  that  wins  his  Mother  to  repeat 

Her  little  song  so  sweet  ! 

What  is  the  chief  news  of  the  Night  ? 

Lo,  iron  and  salt,  heat,  weight  and  light 

In  every  star  that  drifts  on  the  great  breeze  ! 

And  these 

Mean  Man, 

Darling  of  God,  whose  thoughts  but  live  and  move 

Round  him  ;   Who  woos  his  will 

To  wedlock  with  His  own,  and  does  distil 

To  that  drop's  span 

The  attar  of  all  rose-fields  of  all  love. 

Although  it  cannot  properly  be  classed 
as  an  ode,  there  is  a  little  poem  by 
Patmore,  entitled  The  Toys,  which,  though 
based  on  a  familiar  episode  and  weighted 
throughout  with  acute  personal  emotion, 
reaches  so  lofty  a  height  by  its  very  sim- 
plicity that  it  has  much  more  claim  to  be 
termed  an  ode  than  many  better-known 
poems  so  called.  For  the  benefit  of  those 
130 


Great  Odes 

readers     who     do     not      know     Coventry 
Patmore's  writings,  I  add  it  here  : 

My  little  son,  who  look' d  from  thoughtful  eyes 
And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up 

wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 
With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 
His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed, 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan, 
Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my 

own  ; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein' d  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  with  bluebells 
And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there 

with  careful  art, 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said  : 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
A  nd  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  weakly  understood, 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 


Great  Odes 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 

Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

"  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

Lord  Tennyson,  notwithstanding  his  un- 
surpassed mastery  of  his  poetic  material, 
did  not  succeed  in  writing  any  memorable 
ode.  His  best,  that  On  the  Death  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  is  grandiose  rather  than 
grand,  and  though  it  was  greatly  admired 
at  the  time  of  its  publication,  and  for  many 
years  afterwards,  it  now  seems  somewhat 
lifeless,  forced — in  a  word,  a  piece  d' occasion. 
In  scarce  any  of  Tennyson's  poems  is 
there  so  marked  a  lack  of  rhythmic  energy, 
although  in  parts  the  music  moves  in  lordly 
fashion.  But  how  unspontaneous  it  is  may 
best  be  gauged  by  examination  of  those  lines 
and  passages  every  here  and  there  which 
in  nowise  seem  the  natural  expression  of 
Tennyson's  genius  ;  as,  for  example,  the 
half -felt,  assertively  patriotic  close  of  the 
eighth  section  : 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

A  t  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 


Great  Odes 

Some  of  the  finest  Victorian  odes,  whether 
or  not  so  called,  are  by  Matthew  Arnold, 
and  one  of  the  most  remarkable  is  the 
death-hymn  of  Empedocles  in  Empedocles 
on  Etna.  This  is  a  noble  ode,  with  a  serene 
if  austere  music. 

Like  us,  the  lightning-fires 
Love  to  have  scope  and  play  ; 
The  stream,  like  us,  desires 
An  unimpeded  way  ; 
Like  us,  the  Libyan  wind  delights  to  roam  at  large. 

Streams  will  not  curb  their  pride 
The  just  man  not  to  entomb, 
Nor  lightnings  go  aside 
To  give  his  virtues  room  ; 

Nor  is  that  wind  less  rough  which  blows  a  good  man's 
barge. 

Nature,  with  equal  mind, 
Sees  all  her  sons  at  play  ; 
p,    Sees  man  control  the  wind. 

The  wind  sweep  man  away  ! 
Allows  the  proudly-riding  and  the  foundered  bark. 

It  is  as  though  the  souls  of  Marcus 
Aurelius  and  Seneca  and  Epictetus  had  found 
utterance  in  : 

Is  it  so  small  a  thing 
To  have  enjoyed  the  sun, 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  Spring, 
To  have  loved,  to  have  thought,  to  have  done  ; 
To  have  advanced  true  friends,  and  beat  down  baffling 
foes  ; 

133 


Great  Odes 

That  we  must  feign  a  bliss 

Of  doubtful  future  date, 

And,  while  we  dream  on  This, 

Lose  all  our  present  state, 
And  relegate  to  worlds  yet  distant  our  repose  ? 
*  *  *  * 

But  thou,  because  thou  hear'st 

Men  scoff  at  Heaven  and  Fate, 

Because  the  Gods  thou  fear' st 

Fail  to  make  blest  thy  state, 

Tremblest,  and  wilt  not  dare  to  trust  the  joys  there 
are  ! 

I  say  :  Fear  not  !    Life  still 
Leaves  human  effort  scope. 
But,  since  life  teems  with  ill, 
Nurse  no  extravagant  hope  ; 

Because  thou  must  not  dream,  thou  need'st  not  then 
despair  I 

Foremost,  however,  among  all  contem- 
porary writers  of  odes  is  Swinburne.  He 
delights  to  expend  his  liberal  rhetoric  in 
sounding  measures ;  and  though  often  his 
odes,  beautiful  as  they  are,  are  more  declama- 
tory than  thought-weighted,  there  are  at 
least  two  or  three  which  will  surely  always 
hold  their  supreme  place  in  Victorian  poetry. 
In  magnificence  of  music  and  splendour  of 
imagery  the  Ode  on  the  Eve  of  Revolution 
stands  foremost.  Swinburne  also  has  written 
the  finest  elegiac  ode  of  our  time,  the  superb 
and  solemn  Ave  atque  Vale,  written  in 
134 


Great  Odes 

memory  of  Baudelaire.  There  is  unsurpass- 
able music  in  these  stanzas,  slow-sweeping 
like  long  sea-billows  : 


Shall  I  strew  on  thee  rose  or  rue  or  laurel, 
Brother,  on  this  that  was  the  veil  of  thee  ? 
Or  quiet  sea- flower  moulded  by  the  sea, 

Or  simplest  growth  of  meadow-sweet  or  sorrel, 
Such  as  the  summer-sleepy  Dryads  weave, 
Waked  up  by  snow-soft  sudden  rains  at  eve 

Or  wilt  thou  rather,  as  on  earth  before, 
Half-faded  fiery  blossoms,  pale  with  heat 
A  nd  full  of  bitter  summer,  but  more  sweet 

To  thee  than  gleanings  of  a  northern  shore 
Trod  by  no  tropic  feet  ? 


VI 

Now  all  strange  hours  and  all  strange  loves  are 

over. 
Dreams   and   desires   and  sombre   things   and 

sweet, 
Hast  thou  found  place  at  the  great  knees  and 

feet 

Of  some  pale  Titan-woman  like  a  lover, 
Such  as  thy  vision  here  solicited, 
Under  the  shadow  of  her  fair  vast  head, 
The  deep  division  of  prodigious  breasts, 
The  solemn  slope  of  mighty  limbs  asleep, 
The  weight  of  awful  tresses  that  still  keep 
The  savour  and  shade  of  old-world  pine-forests 
Where  the  wet  hill-winds  weep  ? 

*  *  *  * 

135 


Great  Odes 

XVIII 

For  thee,  O  now  a  silent  soul,  my  brother, 

Take  at  my  hands  this  garland,  and  farewell. 
Thin  is  the  leaf,  and  chill  the  wintry  smell, 

And  chill  the  solemn  earth,  a  fatal  mother, 
With  sadder  than  the  Niobean  womb, 
And  in  the  hollow  of  her  breasts  a  tomb. 

Content  thee,  howsoe'er,  whose  days  are  done  ; 
There  lies  not  any  troublous  thing  before, 
Nor  sight  nor  sound  to  war  against  thee  more, 

For  whom  all  winds  are  quiet  as  the  sun, 
All  waters  as  the  shore. 

Finally,  I  may  allude  to  the  two  or 
three  fine  odes  which  George  Meredith  has 
written.  Chief  among  them  is  the  noble 
Ode  to  France  :  December,  1870.  One,  more 
brief,  from  his  volume,  A  Reading  of  Earth, 
I  may  quote  : 

MEDITATION  UNDER  STARS 

What  links  are  ours  with  orbs  that  are 

So  resolutely  far  : 
The  solitary  asks,  and  they 
Give  radiance  as  from  a  shield  : 

Still  at  the  death  of  day, 

The  seen,  the  unrevealed. 

Implacable  they  shine 
To  us  who  would  of  Life  obtain 
An  answer  for  the  life  we  strain, 

To  nourish  with  one  sign. 
Nor  can  imagination  throw 
The  penetrative  shaft :  we  pass 
136 


Great  Odes 

The  breath  of  thought,  who  would  divine 

If  haply  they  may  grow 
As  Earth  ;   have  our  desire  to  know  ; 
If  life  comes  there  to  grain  from  grass, 
A  nd  flowers  like  ours  of  toil  and  pain  ; 

Has  passion  to  beat  bar, 

Win  space  from  cleaving  brain  ; 

The  mystic  link  attain, 

Whereby  star  holds  on  star. 

Those  visible  immortals  beam 

Allurement  to  the  dream  : 
Ireful  at  human  hungers  brook 

No  question  in  the  look. 
For  ever  virgin  to  our  sense, 
Remote  they  wane  to  gaze  intense  : 
Prolong  it,  and  in  ruthlessness  they  smite 
The  beating  heart  behind  the  ball  of  sight  : 

Till  we  conceive  their  heavens  hoar, 
Those  lights  they  raise  but  sparkles  frore, 
And  Earth,  our  blood-warm  Earth,  a  shuddering 

prey 
To  that  frigidity  of  brainless  ray. 

Yet  space  is  given  for  breath  of  thought 
Beyond  our  bounds  when  musing :  more 
When  to  that  musing  love  is  brought, 
And  love  is  asked  of  love's  wherefore. 
'Tis  Earth's,  her  gift ;  else  have  we  nought : 
Her  gift,  her  secret,  here  our  tie. 
And  not  with  yet  and  yonder  sky  ? 
Bethink  you  :   were  it  Earth  alone 
Breeds  love,  would  not  her  region  be 

The  sole  delight  and  throne 

Of  generous  Deity  ? 

137 


Great  Odes 

To  deeper  than  this  ball  of  sight 
Appeal  the  lustrous  people  of  the  night. 
Fronting  yon  shoreless,  sown  with  fiery  sails, 

It  is  our  ravenous  that  quails, 
Flesh  by  its  craven  thirsts  and  fears  distraught. 

The  spirit  leaps  alight, 

Doubts  not  in  them  is  he, 
The  binder  of  his  sheaves,  the  sane,  the  right  : 
Of  magnitude  to  magnitude  is  wrought, 
To  feel  it  large  of  the  great  life  they  hold 
In  them  to  come,  or  vaster  intervolved, 

The  issues  known  in  us,  our  unsolved  solved  : 
That  there   with   toil  Life   climbs  the   self-same 

Tree, 
Whose  roots  enrichment  have  from  ripeness 

dropped. 

So  may  we  read  and  little  find  them  cold  : 
Let  it  but  be  the  lord  of  Mind  to  guide 
Our  eyes  ;  no  branch  of  Reason's  growing  lopped  ; 
Nor  dreaming  on  a  dream  ;  but  fortified 
By  day  to  penetrate  black  midnight ;  see, 
Hear,  feel,  outside  the  senses  ;  even  that  we. 
The  specks  of  dust  upon  a  mound  of  mould, 
We  who  reflect  those  rays,  though  low  our  place, 
To  them  are  lastingly  allied. 

So  may  we  read,  and  little  find  them  cold  : 
Nor  frosty  lamps  illuminating  dead  space, 
Not  distant  aliens,  not  senseless  Powers. 
The  fire  is  in  them  whereof  we  are  born  ; 
The  music  of  their  motion  may  be  ours. 
Spirit  shall  deem  them  beckoning  Earth  and 

voiced 
Sisterly  to  her,  in  her  beams  rejoiced. 

138 


Great  Odes 

Of  love  the  grand  impulsion,  we  behold 

The  love  that  lends  her  grace 

Among  the  starry  fold. 
Then  at  new  flood  of  customary  morn, 

Look  at  her  through  her  showers, 

Her  mists,  her  streaming  gold, 
A  wonder  edges  the  familiar  face  : 
She  wears  no  more  that  robe  of  printed  hours  ; 
Half  strange  seems  Earth,  and  sweeter  than  her 
flowers. 

It  is  in  poems  such  as  this,  governed, 
as  to  their  metrical  music,  by  a  natural 
and  not  by  an  arbitrary  law,  that  we  find 
the  true  English  ode,  "  the  slow,  majestic 
lyric." 

1890 


139 


"LA  JEUNE  BELGIQUE" 

(1893) 

FOR  more  than  a  decade  an  interesting  and 
highly  significant  literary  movement  has 
evolved  in  Belgium.  This  renaissance,  for 
such  it  is,  is  quite  distinct  from  the  slowly 
waning  Flemish  literary  revival  which  took 
on  a  new  vitality  about  the  time  of  the 
Franco-German  conflict ;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  from  the  somewhat  insipid  "  French 
tradition,"  which  has  the  actual  or  partly 
imaginary  status  of  official  and  conservative 
recognition. 

This  movement,  be  it  noted,  arose  under 
conditions  and  in  circumstances  practically 
similar  to  those  which  determined  in  France 
the  foundation  of  the  famous  Parnasse  of 
1866.  The  aim  of  the  Belgic,  as  of  the 
French  Parnassiens  was,  in  the  words  of 
one  of  the  most  noteworthy,  not  to  create 
a  particular  poetic  school,  but  to  bring 
about  a  reaction  against  literary  ignor- 
ance, disorder,  and  general  backbonelessness 
140 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

(amorphisme  ambiant] ;  not  to  open  a  little 
private  chapel,  but  to  clear  and  garnish 
afresh  "  la  grande  eglise  ou  regnent  la 
religion  desinteressee  de  1'art  et  le  respect 
de  la  forme."  This  brotherhood  of  a  Par- 
nasse  Belgique  has  naturally  had  its  schisms 
and  defections.  Its  latest  apologist,  M. 
Gilkin,  admits  this  ;  but  he  adds  that  since 
1887  (when  La  Parnasse  de  la  Jeune  Belgique 
was  published)  the  group  of  new  men  has 
remained  almost  intact,  and  is  proud  of 
having  maintained  steadfastly  the  demands 
of  the  fundamental  laws  of  French  poetry 
without  hurt  to,  or  transformation  of, 
those  particular  aspects  and  methods  of 
thought  and  sentiment  characteristic  of 
every  patriotic  Belgian — the  legacy  of  his 
race,  of  his  Northern  climate,  and  of  that 
particular  condition  which  has  given  his 
country  an  intermediate  situation  between 
the  most  powerful,  as  well  as  the  most 
Occidental,  of  the  Latin  peoples,  and  the 
most  potent  of  the  Germanic  races. 

The  Belgians  claim  that  they  are  produc- 
ing a  national  literature.  Many  influential 
French  critics  refuse  to  acknowledge  this 
Belgic  literary  output  as  anything  more 
than  the  transfrontier  radiation  of  the 
central  luminary.  Other  and  not  less 
141 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

trustworthy  students  declare  that,  mean- 
while, Belgic  literature  is  a  dependent  ally 
(still  an  ally,  not  lineal  progeny),  and 
that  ere  long  it  will  probably  become  as 
distinctly  and  recognisably  national  as  is 
possible  for  any  literature  expressed  in  a 
language  which  is  its  own  by  adoption  only 
or  through  complex  accident. 

To  one  who  has  closely  studied  the 
whole  movement  in  its  intimate  and  extra- 
national  bearings,  as  well  as  in  its  individual 
manifestations  and  aberrations,  its  par- 
ticular and  collective  achievement  in  the 
several  literary  genres,  there  is  no  question 
as  to  the  radical  distinction  between  Belgic 
and  French  literature.  Whether  there  be 
a  great  future  for  the  first  is  almost  entirely 
dependent  on  the  concurrent  political  con- 
dition of  Belgium.  If  Germany  were  to 
appropriate  the  country,  it  is  almost  certain 
that  only  the  Flemish  spirit  would  retain 
its  independent  vitality,  and  even  that 
probably  only  for  a  generation  or  two. 
But  if  Belgium  were  absorbed  by  France, 
Brussels  would  almost  immediately  become 
as  insignificant  a  literary  centre  as  is  Lyons 
or  Bordeaux,  or  be,  at  most,  not  more 
independent  of  Paris  than  is  Marseilles. 
Literary  Belgium  would  be  a  memory 
142 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

within  a  year  of  the  hoisting  of  the  French 
tricolour  from  the  Scheldt  to  Liege.  Mean- 
while the  whole  energy  of  "  Young  Belgium  " 
is,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  concentrated 
in  the  effort  to  withstand  Paris. 

Of  course,  every  one  who  follows  the  drift 
of  Continental  literature  knows  that  Belgium 
is,  at  least,  above  the  productive  level  of 
Portugal  or  Greece.  But,  even  in  France, 
the  misapprehension  is  too  prevalent  that 
this  sudden  renaissance,  amid  the  Flemish 
and  Walloon  "  barbarians,"  concurs  with  the 
advent  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck. 

The  author  of  La  Princesse  Maleine  is  a 
man  of  genius.  His,  no  doubt,  is  the  most 
interesting  literary  personality  among  the 
many  more  or  less  interesting  personalities 
of  "  Young  Belgium."  But  he  is  not,  in  his 
dramatic  method,  the  absolute  innovator  he 
has  been  represented  to  be  ;  and  he  is  not 
the  chief  poet  of  his  country.  In  a  word, 
he  is  one  of  a  group,  and  is  himself,  as  a 
literary  force,  as  directly  the  outcome  of 
circumstances  as  the  group  to  which  he 
adheres  is  the  natural  result  of  the  causes 
which  induced  a  Belgic  renaissance. 

No  doubt,  an  adequate  account  of  this 
renaissance   would   have   to   comprise   the 
Flemish  as  well  as  the  Walloon  and  Gallic 
143 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

aims  and  accomplishment.  It  is  impractic- 
able, naturally,  to  attempt  even  an  outline 
of  such  an  account  in  the  present  article. 
We  must  consider  Belgic  literature  "  d 'ex- 
pression fran9aise  "  posterior  to  its  inocu- 
lation with  its  most  fortunate  strain,  that 
which  the  critics  call  le  flandricisme. 

We  all  know  the  national  motto  of 
Belgium  :  "  Union  is  strength."  The  ablest 
writers  of  the  Franco-Flemish  Netherlands 
recognised  its  aptness.  There  was  no  room 
for  a  national  Flemish  literature,  nor  could 
the  Franco-Belgians  hold  their  own  against 
Gallic  influences  without  alliance,  and, 
indeed,  practical  identification  with,  the 
patriotic  sons  of  Flanders.  Fusion  had 
already  gone  far ;  the  new  movement 
had  begun,  when,  in  1881,  Henri  Con- 
science, at  the  end  of  his  notable  speech 
before  the  Royal  Academy  of  Belgium,  on 
the  "  Histoire  et  Tendances  de  la  Litterature 
Flamande,"  concluded  with  those  signifi- 
cant, often  quoted,  and,  to  a  Belgian, 
inspiring  words  : 

Flamands,  Wallons, 
Ce  ne  sont  Id  que  des  prtnoms  : 
Beige  est  notre  nom  de  famille  ! 

This  was  a  note  often  sounded,  but  not 

listened  to,  throughout  the  country,  from 

144 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

the  Dutch  Scheldt  to  the  French  Meuse, 
till  Henri  Conscience  uttered  it  with  an 
earnestness  which,  coming  from  him,  carried 
conviction.  So  far  back  as  five-and-forty 
years  ago  the  Flemish  poet  Nolet  de  Brau- 
were  urged  the  same  plea  :  "  Let  us  all  put 
our  lutes  into  one  accord,  and  dedicate  our 
music  to  our  native  land — the  native  land  of 
each  of  us,  whether  Walloon  or  Fleming  !  " 

No  movement  of  vital  importance  is 
ever  made.  It  must  grow.  The  men  must 
be  in  evidence  before  they  congregate  in 
a  league,  as  there  must  be  natural  leaders 
in  a  mob  or  an  army  before  manifold 
causes  bring  the  needed  men  to  the  front. 
Thus  was  it  with  "la  Jeune  Belgique"  of 
the  Parnasse  of  1887,  the  "  Young  Belgium  " 
which  looks  to  Henri  Conscience  and  Picard 
with  reverence,  but  whose  aims  are  inspired, 
whose  minds  are  influenced,  whose  language 
is  coloured,  by  a  passionate  modernity  which 
has  little  heed  for  what  is  of  the  past  in  point 
of  manner  and  selection.  The  designation 
had  been  bandied  about  a  good  deal — had 
indeed  been  used  as  the  name  of  a  periodical 
— but  was  not  of  national  import  till  the 
publication,  in  1887,  of  La  Parnasse  des 
Pastes  Beiges,  the  pronunciamiento  by  the 
band  of  writers  who  had  definitely  adopted 

II  145  K 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

the  signal  appellation  of  "  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 
and  the  implied  motto  Pro  Arte. 

The  movement,  as  we  now  know  it,  may 
be  said  to  begin — in  so  far  as  any  compli- 
cated literary  development  can  be  said  to 
begin  in  any  one  year,  or  through  the  pro- 
pulsion of  any  one  writer — with  a  significant 
little  volume  of  verse  published  in  1876  : 
M.  Theodore  Hannon's  Vingt-quatre  Coups 
de  Sonnets.  This  is  where  we  first  hear 
definitely  the  new  note.  It  is  the  note  of 
Parnassien  modernity — a  note  of  revolt,  a 
revolt  as  distinct  from  the  cheap  cynicism 
of  the  Byronic  school  as  from  the  purely 
intellectual  pessimism  which  has  long  been 
the  vogue  in  Germany ;  of  reversion  to  the 
old  monkish  doctrine  that  we  all,  men  and 
women,  are  thoroughly  given  over  to  the 
Devil,  and  that  no  good  thing  can  come  out 
of  modern  life  (with  a  paradoxical  harping 
upon  its  carnal  delights  which  savours  of 
sympathetic  enjoyment  rather  than  of  re- 
probation) ;  and  of  conviction  that  not  to 
be  neurotic  is  to  be  outside  the  pale  of 
endurable  existence,  and  that  to  be  a  con- 
tented bourgeois  is  to  be  thrice  damned. 
With  this  "  modern  note  "  there  is  always 
aspiration ;  too  often,  however,  we  find 
the  aspiration,  here  among  these  young 
146 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique" 

Belgians  as  elsewhere,  somewhat  passee, 
not  to  say  got  up  for  the  occasion.  Not 
quite  infrequently,  I  admit,  I  have  been 
reminded  of  a  sentence  in  Mr.  Richard 
Whiteing's  witty  and  charming  romance  The 
Island :  the  Adventures  of  a  Person  of  Quality  : 
"  The  great  mark  of  all  progressive  nations  is 
that  struggle  of  each  man  to  make  some  other 
do  his  dirty  work  for  him,  which  is  commonly 
known  as  aspiration  for  the  higher  life." 

But  the  modern  note  in  its  wider  and 
finer  sense  is  also  to  be  discerned  among 
the  Belgian  authors  even  of  the  elder 
generation.  We  find  it  markedly,  for  instance, 
in  Charles  de  Coster,  an  eminent  writer 
with  whose  death  in  1879  the  old  regime 
gave  place  to  the  new,  though  not  rudely 
or  abruptly,  as  all  Belgium  had  in  more 
or  less  degree  been  wrought  preparedly  by 
the  genuine  power  and  new  spirit  in  Legendes 
Flamandes  (1857),  Contes  Brabanfons  (1861), 
and  particularly  in  his  now  famous  chef- 
d'ceuvre,  La  Legende  d'Ulenspiegel  (1868). 
This  note  is  likewise  audible,  it  goes  almost 
without  saying,  in  the  work  of  Henri 
Conscience.  But  with  these  exceptions  the 
Belgic  phalanx,  before  1880,  was  not  a 
formidable  one.  So  slightly  were  the  new 
men  recognised,  that  in  1880  an  eminent 
147 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

critic  spoke  of  Charles  Potvin  as  "  our 
best  living  poet  " — Potvin,  an  able  and 
conscientious  litterateur,  but  certainly  no 
master  of  words  either  in  prose  or  verse. 
Even  then  certain  writers  had  struck  an 
unmistakable  note.  Even  then  the  strong 
spirits  of  the  elder  and  younger  generation 
were  knocking  loudly  at  the  door ;  and 
Edmond  Picard,  Georges  Eckhoud,  Max 
Waller,  Camille  Lemonnier,  Georges  Roden- 
bach,  Emile  Verhaeren,  Charles  Van 
Lerberghe,  and  others  of  scarce  less  note, 
had  actually  crossed  the  threshold. 

"  Young  Belgium  "  was  fortunate  in  the 
friends  it  attracted  or  who  voluntarily  wel- 
comed it  with  gladly  proffered  aid.  To  two 
men  in  particular  the  writers  of  to-day  owe  a 
deep  debt — to  the  veteran  Edmond  Picard, 
for  his  own  able  work  in  some  degree,  still 
more  for  his  critical  proclamations  collectively 
entitled  Pro  Arte  ;  and,  above  all,  for  his 
incessant  heed  and  ready  advice,  for  that 
sympathy  and  helpfulness  which  have  won 
for  him  the  appellation  "  the  Belgic 
Maecenas  "  ;  and  to  the  late  Maurice  War- 
lomont  ("  Max  Waller "),  the  generally 
recognised  founder  of  La  Jeune  Belgique 
as  we  know  it  to-day,  a  man  of  singular 
charm,  ability,  and  influence. 
148 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

Even  in  Brussels  (in  the  words  of  a  satirical 
critic)  one  might,  in  1883,  have  heard  of 
the  existence  of  the  league  of  les  Jeunes. 
The  movement  was  then  in  full  swing,  the 
wave  bearing  on  its  crest,  among  others, 
Picard  and  Max  Waller,  Lemonnier  and 
Verhaeren,  and  Eckhoud.  With  the  founda- 
tion of  the  now  rare  periodical  La  Pleiade,* 
and  its  more  robust  confrere  La  Jeune 
Belgique,  this  movement  had  at  last  become 
a  recognised  factor.  Of  course  absolute 
solidarity  was  not  to  be  expected.  In  1886 
Camille  Lemonnier  went  to  Paris,  there  to 
begin  anew  a  brilliant  career  with  Happe- 
Chair,  the  Germinal  of  Belgium,  as  it  has 
been  called.  There,  moreover,  were  already 
domiciled  Georges  Rodenbach  (a  Franco- 
Flemish  poet  and  novelist  of  genuine  talent 
lost  in  Paris  journalism),  and  the  well- 
known  J.  K.  Huysmans.  Other  and  more 
serious  schisms  or  departures  took  place, 
but  the  essential  solidarity  of  the  movement, 
more  particularly  in  poetic  literature,  became 

*  Not  to  be  confounded  with  La  Pttiade 
published  in  Paris  ;  though  in  that  still  rarer 
periodical,  I  may  add,  Maeterlinck  (then  content 
to  sign  his  Flemish  baptismal  name,  Mooris),  and 
I  believe  also  Van  Lerberghe,  Gregoire  Le  Roy, 
and  perhaps  Ephraim  Mikhael,  made  each  his 
debut  in  literature. 

149 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

evident  by  the  distinctive  and  significant 
Parnasse  de  la  Jeune  Belgique,  published, 
as  already  stated,  in  1889.  Thereafter  it 
was  no  longer  seemly  even  for  the  most 
adverse  critics  to  deny  that  Belgium  had 
at  last  produced  a  literature  which  it 
might  fairly  claim  as  distinctively  its 
own. 

To  return  to  the  beginning  of  the  move- 
ment. Since  what  Belgian  historians  call 
their  romantic  epoch,  the  generation  younger 
than  that  just  on  the  wane  at  the  time  of 
the  Franco-Prussian  War  knew  only  five 
native  authors  of  whom  it  could  be  proud — 
Charles  de  Coster,  Henri  Conscience,  Camille 
Lemonnier,  Octave  Pirmez,  and  Andre 
Van  Hasselt.  Of  these  only  the  third  was 
in  "  war-paint  "  towards  the  end  of  the 
seventh  decade  of  the  century. 

To  found  and  carry  on,  in  the  front  of 
organised  opposition  and  contumely,  official 
sneers,  irresponsible  enmity,  and,  for  a  time, 
the  profound  public  apathy,  a  periodical 
entitled  La  Jeune  Belgique,  with  a  programme 
obnoxious  to  the  great  majority  of  possible 
readers,  and  a  staff  composed  of  writers 
either  wholly  unfamiliar  or  known  mainly 
by  disrepute,  was  a  creditable  as  well  as  a 
hazardous  undertaking.  To  Max  Waller 
150 


"La  feune  Belgique" 

this  high  credit  is  due.  At  his  call  to  arms 
he  was  joined  at  once  by  such  brilliant 
lieutenants  as  Eckhoud,  Albert  Giraud, 
Emile  Verhaeren,  I  wan  Gilkin  ;  later  by 
almost  every  poet  and  romancist  who  has 
made  any  reputation  whatever.  To  colour- 
less verse,  to  effete  or  anaemic  prose,  this 
phalanx,  recruited  and  led  by  Max  Waller, 
responded,  says  a  necrologist  of  M.  War- 
lomont — "  par  des  vers  puissants  et  des  proses 
pleines  d'exuberance,  de  sante  et  de  vie." 

Max  Waller  will  always  hold  a  high  place 
in  the  history  of  modern  Belgian  literature. 
But  he  will  hold  it  as  a  pioneer.  In  a  sense 
he  is  a  captain  of  a  new  departure  ;  as 
Dryden  was  in  England,  as  Chateaubriand 
was  in  France,  as  Gogol  was  in  Russia. 
But  he  was  neither  a  Gogol,  a  Chateau- 
briand, nor  a  Dryden.  Meanwhile  it  is 
natural  his  countrymen  should  be  kindly 
in  their  praise  of  his  work.  What  he  has 
left  will  not,  however,  survive,  save  for  the 
student.  When  the  personal  tradition  of 
the  man  is  no  longer  extant  he  will  have 
ceased  to  be  remembered  even  by  his  most 
notable  prose  book,  La  Vie  Bete,  and  possibly 
not  even  by  his  charming  volume  of  verse, 
Airs  de  Flute,  or  Flute  a  Siebel,  as  it  came  to 
be  called. 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

That  was  a  goodly  assertion  that  the  verse 
and  prose  of  the  younger  men  was  full  of 
exuberance,  of  health,  and  of  life.  Obviously, 
however,  there  are  differences  of  opinion  as 
to  the  true  definition  or  the  proper  signifi- 
cance of  these  abstractions. 

The  two  most  "  Parnassien  "  of  the  Par- 
nassiens  are  Theodore  Hannon  and  Iwan 
Gilkin.  Both,  moreover,  are  fond  of  insisting 
on  exuberance  (joy),  health  (joyous  living), 
and  life  (more  or  less  unconventional  expe- 
rience). One  of  them,  indeed,  wrote  the 
eulogium  of  Max  Waller's  "  phalanx."  Let 
us  glance  at  the  poetry  of  these  young 
Davids. 

M.  Hannon  followed  his  Vingt-quatre 
Coups  de  Sonnets  with  his  remarkable 
Rimes  de  Joie.  This  collection  of  verse 
won  for  him  at  a  later  date  such  designations 
as  "  the  Belgian  Laforgue,"  "  the  Belgian 
Rimbaud,"  and  even  "  the  Belgian  Ver- 
laine."  But  M.  Hannon  is  not  a  supreme 
artist  in  words,  nor  has  he  either  the  poig- 
nant personal  note  of  the  poet  of  Les 
Illuminations  or  the  marked  individuality 
of  the  author  of  Moralites  Legendaires.  A 
nicer  estimate  would  be  one  that  ranked 
him  a  brilliant  apprentice  to  the  great  poet 
of  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai.  Baudelaire,  indeed, 
152 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

is  the  paramount  influence  in  the  moulding 
of  the  collective  poetic  genius  of  Young 
Belgium.  Even  in  one  point  where  some 
of  our  not  too  widely  read  newer  critics 
attribute  novelty  to  the  productions  of 
certain  of  the  younger  French  and  Spanish 
poets,  to  the  Dutch  "  sensitists,"  and  to 
one  or  two  English  imitators — the  use  of 
colour- words  to  convey  particular  emotions 
or  conditions — even  here  the  new  note, 
clear  and  mellow,  was  sounded  by  Baude- 
laire. This  impeccable  artist,  who  so 
invariably  adopted  "  des  adjectifs  avec 
premeditation,"  has  anticipated  Rene  Ghil 
and  a  host  of  others  in,  for  instance,  these 
lines  at  once  so  lovely  and  so  signi- 
ficant : 

//  est  des  parfums  frais  comme  des  chairs  d'enfants, 
Doux  comme  les  hautbois,  verts  comme  les  prairies. 
Les  parfums,  les  couleurs,  et  les  sons  se  repondent. 

By  Rimes  de  Joie  M.  Hannon  must 
not  be  taken  as  indicating  "  Songs  of 
Joy."  "  Joie  "  with  him  has  the  signi- 
ficance of  the  word  in  another  collocation 
— "  fille  de  joie."  His  rhymes  are  of  the 
gaiety,  the  sensuous  seduction,  the  animal 
appeal,  in  a  sense  the  spiritual  allure,  of 
the  life  which  is  of  the  flesh,  of  the  earth 
earthy.  He  is  in  this  respect  but  the 
153 


"  La  feune  Belgique  " 

emphasised  type  of  his  kindred  among  "  les 
jeunes."  "O!  Femme,  Femme  !  toi  qui 
fais  1'humanite  monomane  !  "  cries  Jules 
Laforgue  in  his  Moralites  Legendaires.  And 
to  a  veritable  obsession  by  "  the  eternal 
feminine  "  is  due  the  most  striking  work  of 
Hannon,  Gilkin,  and  other  fin-de-siecle  poets 
of  Belgium  ;  as,  indeed,  of  the  painter- 
etcher,  Felicien  Rops,  and  others  of  his 
kindred.  This  vision  of  animal  woman- 
hood dominates  the  imagination  of  these 
latter-day  "  barbares  precieux."  For  le  Nu 
they  have  substituted  le  Denude.  Woman 
is  a  "  blanche  chatte  humaine  "  for  M.  Van 
Beers ;  something  between  "  une  ange 
perdue  et  une  fouine "  for  M.  Rops ;  a 
seductive  aspect  of  damnation  for  M. 
Gilkin  ;  an  expensive  vice  for  M.  Hannon  ; 
for  one  or  two  a  wandering  voice  from  a 
lost  land  ;  for  others  a  consuming  or  a  para- 
lysing breath — "  la  voix  feminine  arrivee 
au  fond  des  volcans  et  des  grottes  arc- 
tiques."  * 

M.    Huysmans   is   an   acute   and   subtle 

critic.      He   deserves   attention,    therefore, 

when  he  writes  so  emphatically  as  he  does 

in  his  prefatory  note  to  the  second  (1881) 

edition  of  Rimes  de  Joie.   Theodore  Hannon 

*  A.  Rimbaud,  Barbare. 

154 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

has  in  his  work,  he  says,  "  une  saveur 
particuliere,  un  gout  de  terroir  flamand, 
complique  d'un  arome  tres-fin  de  nervisme." 
So  far,  so  good.  A  glance  will  satisfy  any- 
one as  to  the  actuality  of  a  particular 
savour  in  Rimes  de  Joie,  though  some 
will  define  it  otherwise  than  as  a  deli- 
cate aroma.  Again,  the  poet  displays  an 
extraordinary  "sollicitude  inquiete  pour  les 
raffinements  mondains."  True,  he  certainly 
does. 

En  resume,  malgre  ses  quelques  cahots  de 
rimes  et  ses  quelques  emberlificotis  de  phrases,  le 
volume  est,  en  attendant  les  ceuvres  realistes 
plus  larges,  plus  fortes,  concues  d'apres  un  precede 
que  j 'ignore  encore,  1'un  des  recueils  de  vers  les 
plus  interessants  qui  aient  paru  depuis  des  annees. 
.  .  .  Par  la,  les  Rimes  de  Joie  se  rattachent, 
comme  une  amusante  fantaisie,  au  grand  mouve- 
ment  de  naturalisme. 

This  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1879  ; 
it  would  be  interesting  to  know  what 
M.  Huysmans  would  say  by  way  of  con- 
firmation or  modification  in  this  autumn  of 
1893.  A  "  proud  hosannah  of  the  flesh  " 
("la  chair  feminine,"  needless  to  say)  goes 
through  this  notable  contribution  "  to  the 
great  movement  of  Naturalism." 
The  Port  Mignon  of  this  poet  has  little 
155 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

in  common  with  the  Bimini  of  the  dreamers.* 
It  is  probably  one  of  those  havens  referred 
to  by  Ben  Jonson — "  the  ports  of  Death 
are  sins."  M.  Huysmans  reserves  his  highest 
praise  for  the  poem  entitled  Opoponax.  It 
opens,  according  to  him,  with  "  une  fanfare 
triomphale  du  cornet,  peu  a  peu  1'orchestre 
entier  s'allume  et  soutient  du  beau  fracas 
de  ces  timbales  et  de  ces  cuivres,  1'hymne 
qui  s'elance,  chantant  les  vertus  libertines  du 
glorieux  parfum."  This  hath  a  sound  of 
nonsense.  The  masterpiece  in  question 
opens  thus  : 

Opoponax  !   nom  tres  bizarre, 
.  Et  parfum  plus  bizarre  encor  ? 

Opoponax,  le  son  du  cor 
Est  pale  aupres  de  ta  fanfare  ! 

The  whole  poem — as  Les  Litanies  de  V Ab- 
sinthe, and  others  of  the  kind — is  an  expo- 
sitio'n  of  Baudelaire's  text,  "  Les  parfums, 
les  couleurs,  et  les  sons  se  repondent."  The 
reader  will  find  it,  if  he  will — in  company 
with  eight  or  nine  companion  pieces — in 
the  Parnasse  de  la  Jeune  Belgique.  He  can 
there  enjoy  its  "  abracadabrant  arome  "  to 
the  full.  "  D'autres  morceaux  suivent,  d'une 
maladie  vraiment  rejouissante,  entr'autres, 

*  ...  Port  Mignon, 
Ou  mes  desirs  ont  jett  I'ancre. 
156 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

le  '  Maquillage,'  cet  extraordinaire  hosannah, 
celebrant  le  charme  dolent  des  epidermes 
fanes."  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  one  has 
soon  too  much  of  this  "  charme,"  whether 
"  dolent  "  or  "  abracadabrant  "  (whatever 
that  may  mean).  There  are  lines  which  even 
M.  Huysmans  qualifies  as  of  "  une  corrup- 
tion troublante." 

The  most  famous  thing  in  the  book, 
however — a  couplet  that  spread  throughout 
Belgium  and  France  with  the  venomous 
rapidity  of  cholera-morbus — occurs  as  the 
conclusion  of  a  poem  called  Grisaille  : 

Amour,  Amour,  on  t'a  bien  dit 
Un  contact  coAteux  d'ipidervnes. 

Probably  the  cynicism  of  depravity  has  never 
gone  beyond  this.  Whoever  M.  Hannon's 
Musa  Consolatrix  may  be,  to  her  is  certainly 
applicable  his  lines  to  "  une  vierge  Byzan- 
tine " : 

Certe  elle  est  plus  originate 
Que  virginale, 

It  is  true  that  in  this  poet's  best  work  there 
is  an  exquisite  art.  Chinoiserie  has  a  grace 
and  remote  charm  that  makes  it  worthy 
of  comparison  with  the  masterpieces  in 
Emaux  et  Camees.  But  from  first  to  last 
the  Rimes  de  Joie  are  obtrusively  salacious. 
157 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

They  may  be,  like  the  body  of  the  lady  in 
Maigreurs,  "seduisant  comme  un  sonnet  "  : 
but — well,  there  are  sonnets  and  sonnets. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  M.  Hannon,  though 
not,  I  hope,  one  of  his  drear  company  of 
"  buveurs  de  phosphore  "  or  even  a  practical 
devotee  of  that  absinthe  whose  praises  he 
sings  so  ecstatically,  has  imbibed  a  peril- 
ous draught  from  that  intoxicating  stream 
whereby  stands  Woman  with  one  hand 
pointing  to  (vide  Les  Illuminations)  the 
flaming  volcanoes,  and  with  the  other  to 
arctic  caverns. 

If,  as  some  have  fancied,  each  of  us 
(though  for  the  present  let  us  confine 
ourselves  to  saying  "  each  poet  ")  has  a 
"  double "  somewhere  in  the  wide  world, 
M.  Iwan  Gilkin  might  be  taken  to  be  the 
counterpart  of  the  author  of  The  City  of 
Dreadful  Night.  His  pessimism  is  not  less 
profound.  But  he  is  a  fin-de-siecle  Belgian, 
and  James  Thomson  was  only  a  British 
poet  who  found  dissipation  too  like  unto 
masked  tragedy  to  treat  of  it  save  with 
a  deep  if  dramatically  disguised  horror. 
M.  Iwan  Gilkin  is,  of  all  the  decadents, 
French  or  Belgian,  the  most  sombre  in  his 
imaginings.  Even  in  his  titles  he  is  more 
suggestive  of  Poe  than  of  a  singer  of  the 
158 


"La  Jeune  Bdgique" 

joy  of  life.  His  first  and  in  some  respects 
his  most  remarkable  book  is  called  La  Dam- 
nation de  V Artiste  ;  his  second  Tenebres. 
These  young  poets  are  either  very  conscious 
of  the  rare  quality  of  their  work,  or  are 
profoundly  suspicious  of  the  reluctance  of 
their  countrymen  to  part  with  their  francs 
for  "  the  immortal  beauty  of  the  flawless 
line "  ;  for  M.  I  wan  Gilkin  deserts  the 
usual  3  francs  50  centimes  for  the  impres- 
sive 15  francs ;  M.  Emile  Verhaeren  asks 
12  francs  for  his  Flambeaux  Noirs  or  his 
Debacles  ;  and  M.  Gregoire  Le  Roy  expects 
the  more  modest  sum  of  10  francs  for  his 
exposition  of  how  mon  cceur  pleure  d'autrefois. 
M.  I  wan  Gilkin  might  have  chosen  the 
following  sentence  from  Guy  de  Maupassant's 
L'Endormeuse  as  the  motto  of  his  books  : 
"J'ai  senti  1'infamie  trompeuse  de  la  vie, 
comme  personne  plus  que  moi  ne  1'a  sentie." 
It  is  regrettable  that  his  vision  is  often  so 
perverted,  his  sentiment  so  morbid,  his 
determination  to  be  gloomy  and  despairing 
and  generally  "  tenebrious  "  so  obvious  ; 
for  with  all  his  shortcomings  he  is  a  poet  of 
genuine  power,  and  even  (on  his  restricted 
highest  level)  of  distinction.  He  is  too  much 
addicted — in  the  ironical  words  of  M. 
Brunetiere  in  his  article  on  Le  Symbolisme 
159 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

Contemporain  (in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes 
for  April  1891) — to  "  rinstrumentation  d'un 
rhythme  polymorphe,  allie  d'un  verbe  ondu- 
latoire."  But  he  has  a  high  sense  of  style, 
and,  while  himself  possessor  of  a  style, 
occasionally  attains  style.  "  II  se  passionne 
pour  la  passion."  He  is  in  love  with  Beauty. 
He  vibrates  to  the  joy  of  life  : 

O  bonte  de  la  vie  !   O  sante  du  soleil  ! 

"Come  unto  me,"  he  cries  in  his  ecstasy, 
"  come  unto  me,  all  ye  who  are  young  and 
athirst  for  beautiful  life,  and  I  will  lead 
you  by  sweet  ways  aflower  with  the  breaths 
of  lovers'  kisses "  :  "  Laissez  venir  .  .  . 
laissez  venir  a  moi  les  beaux  adolescents." 
It  is  strange  after  this,  or  after  such  a 
solemn  adjuration  as  this  verse  from  his 
strange  and  impressive  Litanies  : 

Surnaturelle,  calme  et  puissante  Beaute, 
Fontaine  de  sante,  miroir  d'etrangete, 
Ecoutez-moi  ! 

to  find  our  minister  of  Apollo  stoop  to  such 
obscure  vision  and  dull  satiety  of  belief  as 
in  the  following  (and  it  must  be  admitted 
equally  typical)  sonnet-octave  : 

Dans  la  rue,  au  theatre,  au  bal,  je  decompose 
Les  visages.     Toujours  j'y  retrouve  le  mal, 

160 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

Qui  sous  les  teints  cuivves,  la  graisse  ou  la  Morose, 
Dicoupe  en  grimafant  un  profit  d 'animal. 

La  brute  qui  vSg&te  au  fond  de  I'dme  impose 
Au  galbe  lentement  son  rictus  bestial. 
L'itre  humain  se  dissout  et  se  metamorphose 
En  chien,  en  bouc,  en  pore,  en  hy&ne,  en  chacal. 

Alas  !  can  it  be  that  the  wanderer  by  the 
halcyon  "  royaume  en  fleur  des  baisers 
eternels,"  ihe  ecstatic  poet  from  whose 
lips  we  heard  "  O  bonte  de  la  vie  !  O  sante 
du  soleil !  "  can  see  nothing  in  humanity 
but  irredeemable  evil,  must  view  each 
face  of  man  or  woman  as  "  un  profil 
d'animal,"  and  can  find  no  more  generous 
category  for  his  fellows  than  that  com- 
prising the  dog,  the  goat,  the  pig,  the 
hyena,  and  the  jackal !  Which  is  the 
I  wan  Gilkin  :  the  poet  of  life  and  beauty, 
or  the  poet  of  decay  and  corruption  ? 
One,  surely,  must  be  sincere  ;  the  other 
insincere,  or  perversely  wrought  to  accept 
mirage  for  reality.  For  this  gloom  of  his 
is  no  lovely  melancholy,  that  shadow  of 
life,  of  joy,  of  beauty.  It  is  a  vision  of  the 
corruptible  seen  across  miasma.  But  the 
author  of  Tenebres  is  of  the  uplands  by 
grace  of  his  best  gift ;  why  should  he  make 
himself  one  with  the  newt  and  the  blind- 
worm  ? 

ii  161  L 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

M.  Gilkin  is  fairly  well  represented  in 
the  Parnasse  de  la  Jeune  Belgique.  Even 
in  these  few  poems  the  reader  will  encounter 
many  of  those  sonorous  lines  which  give 
this  young  poet  an  almost  Mario  we -like 
distinction : 

La  nuit,  sur  le  zenith,  debout  comme  un  heraut. 

Lumineusement  route  une  lune  coupee 
Dans  le  silence  noir  et  la  terreur  de  I' air. 

Est-ce  I'ange  sonnant  la  trompette  de  fer  ? 
Beuglant  sur  la  cite  sa  clameur  rauque  et  morne  ? 

From  first  to  last  there  is  unmistakably 
something  of  "le  gout  de  terroir  flamand." 
It  is  no  French  poet 

Of  the  clear  glow  divine, 
The  flawless  sunlit  line, 

but  the  countryman  of  Van  Lerberghe  and 
Maeterlinck,  who  cries  in  his  dolorous  Rime 
de  Reve  Malheureux : 

En  toi  j' adore,  enfant  des  sinistres  Destins, 
L'Horreur  fascinatrice  et  la  Bisarrerie. 

It  is  regrettable,  however,  that  the  antho- 
logy in  question  does  not  include  some  of  the 
finer  poems,  as,  for  example,  Israfel  (from 
La  Damnation  de  V Artiste),  "'mid  the  high 
amber  and  ebony  palaces  of  heaven." 
162 


!'  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

To  neither  M.  Hannon  nor  M.  Gilkin, 
I  am  afraid,  could  their  most  enthu- 
siastic eulogists  apply  what  an  indignant 
French  apologist  exclaimed  on  behalf  of  a 
"martyr's"  work :  "II  n'y  a  pas  lade  quoi 
faire  rougir  une  epiciere,  ou  palir  un  gen- 
darme." Truth  to  tell,  much  of  this  mala- 
droit handling  of  salacious  themes  is  alto- 
gether remote  from  a  purely  artistic  passion 
for  the  beautiful  in  any  guise.  Too  often 
it  is  mere  vulgarity.  In  a  sense  the  most 
regrettable  thing  is  not  the  vulgarity,  but 
the  author's  ignorance  that  they  are  dis- 
mounted from  Pegasus  and  are  standing  in 
the  mire.  Good  for  both  the  poets  just 
named,  and  for  so  many  other  of  their 
confreres,  would  be  a  breath  of  that  "  elan 
genial  " — in  the  words  of  Erast£ne  Ramiro — 
"  cet  elan  g6nial,  qui  chasse,  comme  un 
vent  irresistible,  les  scories  des  impressions 
vulgaires." 

M.  Iwan  Gilkin,  however,  was  hardly 
one  of  the  inaugurators  of  the  new  move- 
ment. Before  1880  Rodenbach  had  pub- 
lished his  (somewhat  mediocre)  Tristesses  and 
other  volumes, and  Eckhoud  his  sole  collection 
of  verse,  Myrtes  et  Cyprus,  and  other  books. 
Strangely  enough  to  those  who  are  not 
au  courant  with  everything  concerning  "  La 
163 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

Jeune  Belgique,"  neither  is  represented  in 
the  Parnasse.  The  omission  of  the  author 
of  La  Jeunesse  Blanche  and  Le  Regne  du 
Silence  is  certainly  a  mistake.  These  books 
have  a  remote  dreamy  beauty,  constantly 
reminiscent  of  and  inspired  by  the  old  dead 
cities  of  Flanders — reflecting,  as  the  un- 
rippled  waters  of  those  deserted  towns, 

Des  nuages,  des  tours  et  de  longs  peupliers. 

As  a  novelist,  also,  Georges  Rodenbach  is 
worthy  of  note.  His  Art  en  Exil  is  as  unlike 
conventional  French  fiction  as  his  most 
exigent  Flemish  compatriot  could  wish. 
But,  both  as  poet  and  novelist,  he  is 
hopelessly  adrift  in  the  maelstrom  of  Paris 
journalism.  As  for  the  exclusion  of  Georges 
Eckhoud,  that  may  be  on  account  of  the 
eminent  novelist's  not  being  considered  as  a 
poet  at  all.  From  this  opinion  no  unbiassed 
critic  could  differ.  Eckhoud,  the  Mau- 
passant of  the  Low  Countries,  the  literary 
historian,  looms  gigantic  in  the  van  of  the 
Belgian  renaissance ;  Eckhoud,  the  author  of 
Myrtes  et  Cypres,  &c.,  is  insignificant.  The 
gulf  is  as  wide  as  that  which  divides  Mr. 
Lecky  the  historian  from  Mr.  Lecky  the 
writer  in  verse.  But  I  remember  at  least 
one  light  and  dexterous  poem  (Xaviola),  of 
164 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

an  easy  grace  and  the  happiest  insouciance, 
though  I  can  recall  only  a  stanza — one 
that  hummed  in  my  ears  for  days  after  I 
first  read  it : 

Si  I 'anecdote  est  leg&re, 

Excusez-moi,  tr&s-cher  fr&re 

J£  suite,  pardonnez-moi  : 

On  etait  sous  la  Regence. 

Les  mceurs  ont  change,  je  pense  ; 

On  suit  mieux  la  sainte  loi. 

Mon  cher  fr&re,  excusez-moi. 

It  is  not  in  verse,  however,  but  in  the 
prose  of  Kees  Dovorik,  Kermesses,  Nouvettes 
Kermesses,  La  Nouvelle  Carthage,  Le  Cycle 
Patibulaire,  that  one  must  study  this  power- 
ful though  gloomy  writer.  The  conteurs  of 
Belgium  are  a  small  but  really  notewothy 
body.  After  Eckhoud,  let  me  recommend 
to  those  readers  who  may  be  unacquainted 
with  the  Belgian  writers  Louis  Delattre's 
Contes  de  mon  Village,  and  Eugene  Demolder's 
Contes  d'Yperdamme.  The  latter  is  a  model 
of  its  kind.  Mention  should  also  be  made 
of  the  Contes  a  Marjolaine  and  Les  Char- 
neux  of  Georges  Garnir,  that  "  Wallon 
Wallonais "  ;  Albert  Giraud's  Le  Scribe, 
&c.,  and  Henry  Maubel's  Quelqu'un  d'Au- 
jourd'hui  and  singularly  charming  Miette. 
There  are  many  others,  but  these  seem  to 
165 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

me  particularly  representative.  Among  the 
several  writers  of  that  species  of  conte, 
or  allegory  or  fantasy,  now  generally  called 
"  proses  -  lyriques  "  —  a  genre  cultivated 
among  the  young  Belgian  poets  and  roman- 
cists  with  singular  success — I  must  mention 
especially  M.  Arnold  Coffin.  Excellent  and 
suggestive  as  are  Delzire  Moris,  Journal 
cT  Andre,  and  Maxime,  this  most  able  writer 
is  seen  at  his  highest  artistic  attainment 
in  the  charming  contes  of  his  recently  pub- 
lished Le  Fou  Raisonnable.  In  point  of 
art,  no  living  Frenchman  has,  in  this 
particular  genre,  excelled  this  series,  unless, 
perhaps,  Marcel  Schwob  in  his  Mimes. 

Apart  from  those  already  specially  alluded 
to,  the  most  distinguished  of  the  Parnassiens 
are  Fernand  Severin,  Gregoire  Le  Roy, 
Andre  Fontainas,  and  Albert  Giraud.  Of 
these,  only  the  first  has  any  suggestion 
of  what  can  fairly  be  called  genius.  His 
Le  Lys  and  Le  Don  cTEnfance  contain 
poetry  of  great  beauty,  with  an  exquisite 
sense  for  nature,  the  more  appellant  because 
the  poet  does  not  describe  but  always  evokes 
the  scene,  the  fleeting  aspect,  the  quint- 
essential moment.  Gregoire  Le  Roy's  Mon 
Cceur  pleure  d'autrefois  is  full  of  delicate 
fancy  and  seductive  phrasing,  but  in  the 
166 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

overwhelming  pressure  of  excellent  poetic 
writing  in  French  he  cannot  be  singled  out 
for  special  honour.  Albert  Giraud  is  prob- 
ably more  widely  appreciated  as  a  roman- 
cist  and  critic  than  as  a  poet,  though  a 
poet  the  author  of  Hors  du  Siecle,  Pierrot 
Lunaire,  Pierrot  Narcisse,  and  Dernieres 
Fetes  unquestionably  is.  M.  Giraud  is  one 
of  the  sanest  and  surest  critics  of  literature 
now  writing  in  Frenc.h  Fontainas  may  yet 
distinguish  himself  ;  Emile  Verhaeren  (who 
is  so  much  in  sympathy  with,  though  not 
included  in,  "  La  Jeune  Belgique ")  has 
already  done  so  in,  particularly,  Les 
Flambeaux  Noirs  and  Les  Debacles.  Leon 
Montenaeken  deserves  mention.  No  Bel- 
gian has  a  lighter  touch,  a  sweeter,  if 
restricted,  lilt.  The  following  haunting 
little  song  by  him  has  been  attributed  to 
a  dozen  different  French  poets,  old  and 
latter-day,  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
even  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  fathered  it  on  some 
innocent  Frenchman : 

PEU  DE  CHOSE 

La  vie  est  vaine  : 
Un  peu  d'amour, 
Un  peu  de  haine  .  .  . 
Et  puis — bonjour  ! 
167 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

La  vie  est  brdve  : 
Un  pen  d'espoir, 
Un  peu  de  rfoe  .  .  . 
Et  puis — bon  soir  ! 

But  in  the  Parnasse  list  there  are  two  names 
of  supreme  importance  in  the  history  of 
the  Belgian  renaissance,  though  neither  of 
commanding  rank  in  metrical  composition  : 
Charles  Van  Lerberghe  and  Maurice  Maeter- 
linck. To  these  should  be  added  the  lesser 
but  still  noteworthy  name  of  a  third  expo- 
nent of  the  drame  intime,  Auguste  Jenart  : 
a  writer  whose  neglect  by  his  fellows  and 
the  Belgian  public  has  always  to  me  been 
a  source  of  surprise. 

It  is  disappointing  to  find  in  the  poetry 
of  two  such  potent  literary  temperaments 
so  little  of  the  same  distinctive  quality  as 
is  readily  discernible  in  the  respective 
dramatic  work  of  either.  It  need  scarce 
detain  us  at  present.  I  must  add  that 
I  know  too  little  of  M.  Van  Lerberghe's 
uncollected  verse  to  attempt  to  judge  it 
adequately.  He  betrays  a  marked  rap- 
prochement to  Rossetti,  and,  to  a  certain 
extent,  to  Poe.  Most  of  M.  Van  Lerberghe's 
published  metrical  work,  I  assume,  may  be 
read  in  the  Parnasse.  It  is  graceful  and 
has  an  individual  charm  in  such  poems  as 
168 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

La  Devine  and  Un  Bois  Dormant ;  while  in 
Solyane  there  is  an  echo  of  that  austerely 
impressive  style  which  characterises  his 
dramatic  masterpiece.  Maeterlinck  is,  per- 
haps, more  natively  the  poet.  He  shows 
himself  an  unmistakable  and,  as  yet,  very 
limited  poet  in  Serres  Chaudes  ;  he  displays 
promise  as  a  conteur  in  his  extremely 
clever  if  fantastically  archaic  Massacre  des 
Innocents,  Onirologie,  &c. ;  and  he  has  won 
a  place  as  a  critical  writer  by  his  scholarly 
monograph  on  Ruysbroeck  PAdmirable  and 
his  occasional  studies  of  contemporary 
literature.  But  it  is  as  an  imaginative 
writer  in  rarefied  prose  wrought  in  the 
dramatic  form  that  he  is  a  newcomer  of 
distinction,  of  genius,  and  is  a  literary 
force  which  has  to  be  reckoned  with.  As 
he  is  represented  in  the  Parnasse  by  about  a 
third  of  his  unique  volume  of  verse,  and 
presumably  by  pieces  chosen  by  himself, 
he  may  be  said  to  be  fairly  represented. 
Unlikely  masters  are  suggested  in  these 
poems  :  poets  so  distinct  as  Walt  Whitman 
and  Edgar  Poe.  Without  his  beloved 
"  cygnes "  and  his  exclamation  marks 
Maeterlinck  would  be  heavily  handicapped. 
"  Swans  "  are  now  as  commonplace  (though 
apparently  as  inevitable)  in  Belgian  verse 
169 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

as  the  breeze  in  the  trees  in  our  albums  and 
annuals  fifty  years  ago.  It  would  be  abso- 
lutely safe  to  say  that  no  Belgian  volume 
of  poetry  has  appeared  without  "  cygnes," 
"  mensonges,"  "  desirs  fauves,"  "  mon  ame 
pale,"  and  "  femmes  lascivieuses  "  (or  other 
expressive  epithet).  "  O  "  is  a  deadly  pitfall 
for  all  "  Young  Belgium,"  and  exclamation 
marks  should  be  looked  at  by  them  with 
the  same  menacing  disapproval  (if  secret 
longing)  as  our  Academical  painters  (no 
doubt)  regard  the  labour-saving  photo- 
graph. In  one  of  these  poems  of  Serres 
Chaudes  alone,  consisting  as  it  does  of 
forty-one  lines,  I  have  counted  no  fewer 
than  twenty -nine  terminal  exclamation 
marks.  In  the  same  poem,  three  lines 
begin  with  "  Oh,"  six  with  "  A,"  and  nine- 
teen with  "  Et."  This  is  not  art,  but  artifice  : 
that  is,  the  mechanical  substitute  for  art. 
Those  repetitive  phrasings  which  Maeterlinck 
uses  with  such  effect  (though  sometimes 
disenchantingly)  in  La  Princesse  Maleine, 
Les  Aveugles,  VIntruse,  Les  Sept  Princesses, 
and  Pelleas  et  Melisande,  are  also  much 
affected  by  him  in  these  poems — sometimes, 
as  in  Ennui,  by  monotonous  insistence  upon 
a  single  word,  or  noun  and  epithet  :  in  this 
instance  "  paon  blanc."  It  is  impossible  to 
170 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

read  these  hothouse  blooms  of  poetry 
without  wishing  for  the  author  that  "  wind 
Euroclydon  "  for  which,  he  tells  us,  in  the 
opening  of  Ame,  he  holds  himself  ready. 
For,  truly,  his  soul  is  too  much  in  the 
shade :  "  Mon  ame !  .  .  .  O  mon  ame 
vraiment  trop  a  1'abri !  " 

The  real  distinction  of  the  contemporary 
literary  movement  in  Belgium  lies  in  the 
drame  intime.  This  particular  form  of 
imaginative  literature  has  been  given  new 
life  and  significance  by  Maeterlinck — 
Maeterlinck  inspired  by  Charles  Van  Ler- 
berghe.  It  has  already  had  a  strong  influ- 
ence on  recent  French  literature,  though 
naturally  the  Belgian  origin  of  this  influence 
is  not  recognised  readily  in  France.  "  Can 
any  good  thing  come  out  of  Nazareth  ?  " 

Broadly,  the  Belgian  movement  culmi- 
nates in  this  new  form — relatively  new, 
that  is  to  say.  It  is  a  form  strangely 
seductive  if  obviously  perilous,  and  one 
that  has,  probably,  a  remarkable  future — 
coming,  as  it  has  done,  at  a  time  when  our 
most  eager  spirits  are  solicitous  of  a  wider 
scope  in  expression,  for  a  further  opening 
up  of  alluring  ways  through  the  ever- 
blossoming  wilderness  of  art.  It  may  well 
be  that  Maeterlinck's  highest  service  will 
171 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

prove  to  be  that  of  a  pioneer — as  Bernardin 
de  St.  Pierre's  highest  service  has  not  been 
by  Paul  et  Virginie,  but  by  his  Etudes  de 
Nature,  having  therewith  directed  into 
new  and  fresh  channels  of  delight  the 
stream  which  threatened  to  stagnate  in 
the  shallows  of  an  insincere  nature-con- 
vention. For,  highly  suggestive,  profoundly 
interesting,  and  even  fascinating  as  his  best 
work  is,  he  does  not  "  loom  forth  the 
master." 

"  C'est  Poperette  de  la  decadence,  apres 
le  drame  de  Baudelaire,"  wrote  E.  Picard  of 
the  debut  of  "  Young  Belgium."  Baudelaire 
is,  in  truth,  even  yet  the  tutelary  god  of  "La 
Jeune  Belgique."  In  the  perusal  of  the 
writings  of  the  league  one  almost  inevitably 
comes  to  identify  the  great  French  poet 
with  the  nation  among  whom  he  sojourned 
awhile  in  anything  but  unalloyed  joy — as  the 
Germans,  in  that  Bavarian  Walhalla  by  the 
Danube,  have  included  Shakespeare  among 
their  effigies  of  Teutonic  celebrities.  There 
are  critics  who  believe  that  Maurice  Maeter- 
linck will  oust  the  alien  master  from  his 
sovereignty  —  somewhat  forgetful,  mean- 
while, of  the  fact  that  the  relationship  is 
not  closer  between  these  two  men  than 
between  a  sculptor  and  a  painter  working 
172 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

differently  under  a  common  bond.  That 
able  Belgian  critic,  M.  Albert  Arnay,  believes 
Maeterlinck  to  be  "  among  the  giants." 
For  myself  I  can  regard  him  only  as  a  worthy 
forerunner  of  a  greater  than  himself.  Yet — 
he  is  young,  he  is  still  in  time  to  unlearn 
as  well  as  to  learn,  he  enjoys  what  is  for  him 
a  fortunate  environment,  he  has  had  fit 
training ;  he  has  a  strain,  perhaps  very 
much  more  than  a  strain,  of  genius.  With 
his  supreme  advantages  he  may  yet  appear 
to  his  countrymen,  to  the  world,  as  he  now 
does  to  such  critics  as  M.  Arnay  in  Belgium 
and  M.  Mirbeau  in  France. 

It  is  strange  that  the  imaginative  writer 
who  first  showed  Maeterlinck  the  method 
and  allure  of  that  peculiar  dramatic  form 
with  which  the  younger  man  is  identified 
should  be  so  little  known.  Strange,  too, 
that  he  should  be  so  austerely  reticent,  for 
Charles  Van  Lerberghe  has  published  no 
book  since  Les  Flaireurs,  that  epoch-marking 
drame  intime,  brief  as  it  is.  Here  for  the 
first  time  we  encounter  the  dramatic 
method  which  has  so  impressed  readers  of 
Maeterlinck's  dramas  and  episodes.  Van 
Lerberghe  does  not  appear  to  have  followed 
any  other  writer  in  his  own  country  or 
abroad.  Possibly  he  has  taken  a  hint 
173 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

from  Calderon.  There  are  in  that  writer's 
plays  dramatic  interludes  of  an  extraordinary 
intensity.  It  is  not  improbable  that  the 
Flemish  poet,  a  curious  student  of  foreign 
literature,  should  have  noted  the  aptitude 
of  this  specific  form  of  composition  for  the 
expression  of  a  certain  quality  of  imagina- 
tive thought  or  emotion  not  so  adequately 
to  be  rendered  in  verse,  or  even  in  highly 
rarefied  prose-narrative. 

The  short  dramatic  episode  entitled  Les 
Flaireurs  occupies  itself  with  a  single  inci- 
dent :  the  death  of  an  old  peasant  woman, 
by  night,  in  a  lonely  cottage  in  a  remote 
district,  with  no  companion  save  her  girlish 
grandchild.  Almost  from  the  outset  the 
reader  guesses  what  the  nocturnal  voices 
indicate.  The  ruse-  of  the  dramatist  is 
almost  childishly  simple,  if  its  process  of 
development  be  regarded  in  detail.  The 
impressiveness  lies  greatly  in  the  cumulative 
effect.  A  night  of  storm,  the  rain  lashing  at 
the  windows,  the  appalling  darkness  without, 
the  wan  candle -glow  within,  a  terrified  and 
bewildered  child,  a  dying  and  delirious  old 
woman,  an  ominous,  oft -repeated  knocking 
at  the  door,  a  hoarse  voice  without,  changeful 
but  always  menacing,  mocking  or  muttering 
an  obscure  and  horrible  message  :  this  inter  - 
174 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

wrought,  again  and  again  represented,  aus- 
terely tragic  by-play — from  one  point  of 
view  merely  the  material  for  tragedy — is 
a  profoundly  impressive  work  of  art.  It 
is  perhaps  all  the  more  so  from  the  fact 
that  it  relies  to  some  extent  upon  certain 
venerable  and  even  outworn  conventionali- 
ties. The  midnight  hour,  storm,  mysterious 
sounds,  the  howl  of  a  dog — we  are  familiar 
with  all  these  "  properties."  They  do  not 
now  move  us.  Sheridan  Le  Fanu,  or 
Fitzjames  O'Brien,  or  R.  L.  Stevenson, 
can  create  for  us  an  inward  terror  far 
beyond  the  half-simulated  creep  with  which 
we  read  the  conventional  bogey -story.  That 
Charles  Van  Lerberghe  should  so  impress 
us  by  the  simplest  and  most  familiar  stage 
tricks  points  to  his  genuine  artistry,  to  his 
essential  masterhood.  The  literary  con- 
jurer would  fain  deceive  us  by  sleight  of 
hand  ;  the  literary  artist  persuades  us  by 
sleight  of  mind. 

Van  Lerberghe  is  neither  romanticist 
nor  realist  as  these  vague  and  often  identical 
terms  are  understood  abroad.  He  works 
realistically  in  the  sphere  of  the  imaginary. 
If  it  were  not  that  his  aim  (as  that  of 
Maeterlinck)  is  to  bring  into  literature  a 
new  form  of  the  drame  intime,  with,  mean- 
175 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

while,  the  adventitious  aid  of  nominal 
stage  accessories,  one  might  almost  think 
that  Les  Flaireurs  was  meant  for  stage 
representation.  It  would  be  impossible, 
however,  thus.  Imagine  the  incongruity 
of  the  opening  of  this  drama  with  its 
subject. 

"  Orchestral  music.  Funeral  march.  Roll 
of  muffled  drums.  A  blast  of  a  horn  in  the 
distance.  Roll  of  drums.  A  short  psalmodic 
motive  for  the  organ.  REPEATED  KNOCKS, 
HEAVY  AND  DULL.  Curtain."  What  have 
orchestral  music  and  rolling  of  drums 
and  a  psalmodic  motive  for  the  organ  to  do 
with  an  old  peasant  woman  dying  in  a 
cottage  ?  For  that  stage  of  the  imagina- 
tion from  which  many  of  us  derive  a  keener 
pleasure  than  from  that  of  any  theatre, 
there  is  perhaps  nothing  incongruous  here. 
The  effect  sought  to  be  produced  is  a  psychic 
one  ;  and,  if  produced,  the  end  is  gained, 
and  the  means  of  no  moment.  It  is  only 
from  this  standpoint  that  we  can  view 
aright  the  work  of  Van  Lerberghe,  Maeter- 
linck, and  Auguste  Jenart.  Les  Flaireurs  is 
wholly  unsuitable  for  the  actual  stage,  as 
unsuitable  as  L'Intruse,  or  Les  Aveugles,  or 
Les  Sept  Princesses,  or  Le  Barbare.  Each 
needs  to  be  enacted  in  the  shadow-haunted 
176 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

glade  of  the  imagination,  in  order  to  be 
understood  aright.  Under  the  limelight 
their  terror  becomes  folly,  their  poetry 
rhetoric,  their  tragic  significance  impotent 
commonplace,  their  atmosphere  of  mys- 
tery the  common  air  of  the  squalidly 
apparent,  their  impressiveness  a  cause  of 
mocking. 

Of  the  strange  drama  of  Auguste  Jenart 
I  can  say  little  here.  In  its  own  kind 
it  seems  to  me  genuinely  impressive. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  ill  sustained ;  here 
and  there  it  even  passes  into  rhodomontade. 
The  author  has  obviously  been  influenced 
by  Maeterlinck  as  well  as  by  Van  Lerberghe, 
though  the  peril  of  the  quest  for  derivation 
is  exemplified  in-  a  recent  allusion  to  Le 
Barbare  as  an  indifferent  production  clearly 
inspired  by  such  compositions  as  Les  Sept 
Princesses  and  Pelleas  et  Melisande—the 
critic  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  the  first 
appeared  in  1891,  a  few  months  after  Jenart's 
drama,  and  the  second  in  1892.  Le  Barbare 
is  a  study  in  psychic  heredity,  in  atavism. 
It  is  as  remote  in  style  and  conception  from 
Ibsen's  Ghosts,  on  the  one  hand,  as,  on  the 
other,  from  such  works  as  Zola's  Rougon- 
Maquart  series,  the  Goncourt's  Germinie 
Lacerteuse,  or  Huysman's  ^4  Rebours.  The 

II  177  M 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

inevitableness  is  not  less  convincing  because 
the  action  is  mainly  mental  and  spiritual 
rather  than  personal  in  the  restricted  bodily 
sense.  A  profoundly  imaginative  gloom 
lies  over  this  tragedy  of  Rynel  de  Roncort 
— the  last  exhausted  scion  of  a  noble  race. 
In  a  sense,  Le  Barbare  is  a  poetic  version  of 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  It  is  an  indi- 
vidual episode  of  the  universal  war  of  good 
and  evil  for  supremacy.  Only  here,  as  Rynel 
would  say,  it  is  not  one  man  struggling 
against  inborn  tendencies  and  adverse  cir- 
cumstances, but  the  heritor  of  ancestral 
passions  and  desires,  insensate  cravings, 
and  inarticulate  longings,  battling  wildly 
against  this  overwhelming  past,  and  striving 
against  or  yielding  before  the  inevitable. 
"  Connais-tu  la  Puissance  tenebreuse  qui 
trame  nos  destinees  ?  Pourquoi  lutter 
contre  elle  ?  "  Rynel  cries.  Again  with  a 
despairing  sense  of  futility :  "  Des  vies 
anterieures  sont  innombrablement  presentes 
en  moi."  The  inner  motive  of  Le  Barbare 
is  revealed  in  such  a  sentence  as  that  of 
Nurh,  the  strange,  dreamlike  beloved  of 
Rynel :  "  There  are  graves  below  the  nerves 
whence  mount  the  desires  of  the  dead." 
The  dominant  note  in  this  sombre  symphony 
of  despair  is  that  ceaseless  cry  of  Rynel  : 
178 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

"  Eveille-moi  du  somnambulisme  de  cette 
vie  !  " 

Le  Barbare  has  obvious  faults.  Notably 
Jenart,  like  Maeterlinck,  trusts  too  often 
and  too  much  to  effects  of  repetition. 

SIRIA.     Vous  appartiendrez  bientot  d  un  autre. 
NURH.   Jamais  !  Jamais  !  Jamais  ! 
SIRIA.     Vous    ne  I'aimez   pas !      Vous  ne   I'aimez 
pas  !     Vous  ne  I'aimez  pas  ! 

A  little  of  this  inter jectional  repetition  is 
effective  :  a  little  more,  and  it  is  no  longer 
so.  It  soon  becomes  dulled — as  that  Sultan's 
scimitar  which  could  raze  the  fluff  from  a 
falling  feather  at  the  first  sweep,  cleave 
the  feather-quill  at  the  second,  and  at  the 
third  merely  whirl  aside  the  drifting  flake. 

Perhaps  the  most  notable  thing  in  Le 
Barbare  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
literary  student  is  the  poetic  and  singu- 
larly impressive  way  in  which  the  animate 
and  inanimate  environment  of  the  personages 
of  the  drama  play  their  part  in  the  general 
scheme  of  psychic  effect.  The  wind,  snow, 
the  tempest,  the  water  of  the  lake  that 
clucks  and  gurgles  below  the  stairs  of  Rynel's 
castle,  the  old  tapestries,  the  firelight,  the 
deep  gloom  of  chill  rooms,  the  ominous 
silence,  the  leaping  or  crawling  of  shadows — 
179 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

are  all  wrought  into  the  same  tragic  weft,  and, 
as  it  seems  to  one  under  the  glamour  of  the 
dramatist's  imagination,  wrought  inevitably. 

In  Maurice  Maeterlinck  we  certainly 
encounter  the  most  interesting  figure  in 
the  contemporary  Belgian  Renaissance. 
Member  of  a  group  though  he  be,  fellow 
in  dramatic  method  with  Van  Lerberghe 
and  others,  inheritor  of  both  the  Flemish 
and  the  Franco -Belgian  tradition — he  yet 
is  original.  He  has  temperament,  per- 
sonality. He  has  that  exceptional  absorbent 
faculty  which  is  one  of  the  several  important 
factors  that  distinguish  the  man  of  genius 
from  the  man  of  talent — though,  almost 
needless,  to  say,  one  might  be  a  veritable 
sponge  in  the  waters  of  other  people's 
minds  and  imaginations,  and  yet  be  no 
more  than  an  insatiably  absorbent  sponge. 
But  is  Maeterlinck  a  dominant  force  ?  Will 
he  revolutionise,  will  his  captaincy  remain 
uncancelled,  will  he  be  crowned  at  last 
as  a  welcome,  if  irresistible  usurper  ?  Will 
he  attain  to  that  high  mastery  which  makes 
a  writer  a  voice  for  all  men,  and  not  merely 
an  arresting  echo  for  his  own  hour,  his  own 
time,  among  his  own  people  ?  His  debut 
was  significant,  remarkable. 

I  do  not  know  how  far  back  the  author 
180 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

of  La  Princesse  Maleine  first  began  to  write  ; 
but  I  remember  that  there  appeared  early 
in  1886,  in  a  long  since  defunct  Paris 
periodical,  one  of  the  most  striking  of  his 
prose  studies.  At  that  date  Maeterlinck 
was  so  exigent  in  the  matter  of  his  Flemish 
nationality  that  he  signed  his  poems  and 
articles  "  Mooris  Maeterlinck."  The 
"  Maurice "  came  later  when  he  found 
that  a  Belgian  wrote  and  spoke  a  universal 
tongue,  and  a  Fleming  what  from  a  broad 
standpoint  can  be  called  only  a  provincial 
dialect.  So  far  back  as  1886  "  Mooris 
Maeterlinck "  projected,  and,  indeed,  an- 
nounced, two  volumes :  one,  a  collection 
of  poems  under  the  general  title  Les  Symbo- 
liques,  and  the  other  Histoires  Gothiques,  to 
comprise  several  imaginative  and  more  or 
less  fantastic  prose  studies.  Neither  book 
has  yet  appeared.  At  any  rate  the  Histoires 
Gothiques  has  not ;  for  it  is  possible  that 
this  author's  sole  published  volume  of  verse, 
Serres  Chaudes,  contains  the  essential  part 
of  what  was  to  appear  in  Les  Symboliques. 
There  are  two  things  essential  to  a  proper 
understanding  of  this  author's  writings : 
some  knowledge  of  the  complex  circum- 
stances which  have  made  him  what  he  is, 
of  his  avowed  aims  and  obvious  tendencies, 
181 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

and  some  acquaintance  with  the  literary 
movement  of  which  he  is  but  one  among 
several,  and,  indeed,  with  the  immediate 
derivations  and  remoter  origins  of  this 
movement.  For,  if  ever  a  writer  was 
the  direct  outcome  of  visible  shaping 
influences,  it  is  Maurice  Maeterlinck.  More- 
over, he  is  not  yet  thirty,  and,  not- 
withstanding Les  Aveugles,  Vlntruse,  La 
Princesse  Maleine,  and  Les  Sept  Princesses, 
he  has  not  yet  found  himself. 

A  strain  of  English  blood,  I  understand, 
runs  in  the  veins  of  M.  Maeterlinck.  How- 
soever this  may  be,  his  literary  inheritance 
is  markedly  English.  He  himself  admits 
this ;  and  it  is  doubtful  if  any  Continental 
writer,  even  M.  Paul  Bourget,  is  more 
intimate  not  only  with  our  latter-day  poets, 
but  with  the  superb  wilderness  of  Elizabethan 
literature  itself.  True,  there  is  his  admission 
about  his  debt  to  Villiers  de  1'Isle-Adam, 
and  during  a  seven  months'  residence  in 
Paris  (in  1886)  he  saw  a  good  deal  of  this 
fascinating  if  sometimes  disappointing  writer, 
whom  he  so  much  admires  : 

"  Je  voyais  tr£s  souvent  Villiers  de  1'Isle- 

Adam  pendant  les  sept  mois  qui  j'ai  passes 

a  Paris.     C'etait  a  la  brasserie  Pousset,  au 

faubourg  Montmartre.    II  y  avait  la  Saint - 

182 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

Pol-Roux,  Mikhael,  Quillard,  Darzens ; 
Mendes  y  passait  quelquefois,  toujours 
charmeur.  Tout  ce  que  j'ai  fait,  c'est  a 
Villiers  que  je  le  dois,  a  ses  conversations 
plus  qu'a  ses  oeuvres  que  j 'admire  beaucoup 
d'ailleurs." 

In  a  word,  Villiers  de  PIsle-Adam  was  to 
him  much  what  Gustave  Flaubert  was  to 
Guy  de  Maupassant,  a  dominating  personal 
influence.  But  he  has  testified  again  and 
again  to  the  supreme  magnitude  of  his 
debt  to  "  Shakspere,  surtout !  Shakspere  !  " 
A  comparison  with  something  by  Shake- 
speare or  one  of  the  Elizabethans  is  as 
natural  to  him  as  to  Swinburne.  Thus, 
in  a  remarkable  critical  article  (La  Damna- 
tion de  V Artiste)  : 

"  II  y  a  la  un  tragique  interne  implacable- 
ment  compact,  mercuriel,  v^neneux,  et  qui 
fait  songer  a  1'envers  psychologique  d'une 
de  ces  inhabitables  tragedies  du  sombre 
contemporain  de  Shakspere,  1'irrespirable 
Cyril  Tourneur." 

After  Shakespeare,  his  acknowledged  in- 
debtedness is  to  De  Quincey,  Rossetti,  and 
Edgar  Allan  Poe,  and,  intellectually,  to 
Carlyle  among  other  English  writers  ; 
among  French,  pre-eminently  to  his  friend 
and  countryman,  Charles  Van  Lerberghe, 
183 


"La  feune  Belgique" 

in  some  measure  to  Baudelaire,  and  more 
markedly  to  certain  of  the  younger  men, 
notably     Stephane     Mallarme     and     Jules 
Laforgue ;    among   Germans,   distinctly   to 
Schopenhauer.     But,  after  Shakespeare,  it 
is  chiefly  from  Rossetti  and  Poe — from  Poe 
and  Rossetti  would  be  nearer  the  mark — 
that  he  derives  that  temperamental  excite- 
ment to  which  is  due  no  small  portion  of 
his  work.     In  both  instances  he  seems  to 
me  to  have  assimilated  weakness  rather  than 
strength.     He  has  been  deeply  impressed  by 
the  author  of  The  House  of  Life,  but  it  is 
not    the   real    massiveness   underlying    the 
overwrought    surface    of     Rossetti's    work 
that  has  most  appealed  to  him.   His  radical 
danger  is  uncontrolled  imagination.     In  his 
latest    work,    published    in    1892,    this    is 
again  and  emphatically  demonstrated.    Les 
Sept  Princesses  has  grace,  a  strange  inde- 
finable haunting  charm,  and  once  or  twice 
a  touch  of  power ;   and  having  this,  it  has 
much.     But    no   dramatic   presentment  so 
essentially  undramatic,  no  imaginative  effort 
so  uncontrolled  by  the  saving  sense  of  the 
artistically  incongruous,  can  take  rank  as 
a  notable  achievement.    Nevertheless,  to  the 
student  of  Maeterlinck's  achievement  as  a 
whole,    Les    Sept    Princesses   is   of   special 
184 


"La  Jeune  Belgique" 

interest,  though  it  has  the  faults,  exaggerated 
in  some  respects,  of  its  predecessor  La  Prin- 
cesse  Maleine.  Neither  play  is  in  the  exact 
sense  a  drama.  In  both  works,  as  M.  Arnay 
indicated  at  the  time  of  the  appearance 
of  the  earlier,  Maeterlinck  has  been  eager 
to  seek  and  demonstrate  what  he  himself 
calls  somewhere  "  Pinnombrable  inconnu 
des  pressentiments,"  undeterred  by  the 
example  of  Shakespeare  and  De  Quincey. 
But  a  keen  apprehension  of  the  value  of 
rare  dramatic  effects  does  not  involve  the 
capacity  of  application,  and  again  and  again 
in  La  Princesse  Maleine  the  author  has 
failed,  either  by  crude  obtrusion  of  this  or 
that  "  point,"  or  by  elaboration.  The 
murder-scene  in  the  dark  chamber  of 
Maleine  is  more  horrible  than  terrible ; 
the  evil  Queen  Ann  is  a  vulgar  murderess, 
not  a  soul  wrought  to  tragic  fury ;  and 
King  Hjalmar  is  fantastic  rather  than  con- 
vincing. 

It  is  not,  however,  in  La  Princesse  Maleine 
that  Maeterlinck's  highest  achievement  is 
to  be  found.  In  those  extraordinary  dramatic 
phantasies,  at  once  so  mechanical  in  structure 
and  so  imaginatively  persuasive,  Les  Aveugles 
and  Ulntruse,  he  not  only  reaches  a  higher 
artistic  level,  but  more  adequately  fulfils  his 
185 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

aim  than  in  the  longer  and  more  ambitious 
and  essentially  more  conventional  work. 
But  it  is  altogether  a  mistake  to  criticise 
Maeterlinck  the  writer  of  imaginative 
dramatic  prose  as  though  he  were  Maeter- 
linck the  playwright. 

In  each  composition  he  attempted  to 
produce  certain  effects  ;  and  to  this  end 
he  wrought  with  a  subtle  skill  so  individual 
because  so  truly  artistic  that  it  defies,  or 
at  any  rate  has  as  yet  defied,  translation. 

I  believe  he  will  give  us  better  work  ; 
work  as  distinctive  as  his  two  masterpieces, 
L'Intruse  and  Les  Aveugles,  but  with  a 
wider  range,  a  sympathy  more  general, 
and  insight  and  apprehension  and  technical 
accomplishment  more  masterly  still. 

For  him,  however,  as  for  all,  there  is 
the  rock-ahead  of  a  misleading  conception 
of  originality.  The  originality  which  lies 
in  the  formative  vision  is  that  which  is 
of  paramount  value,  not  that  which  is 
preoccupied  with  mere  novelty  of  pre- 
sentment. In  the  words  of  M.  Theodore 
de  Wyzewa  in  a  recent  suggestive  article  in 
Le  Mercure  de  France  :  "  Cette  decroissance 
de  1'originalite  interieure,  et  ce  souci  croissant 
de  1'originalite  ext£rieure,  ce  sont  les  deux 
faits  qui  resument  toute  1'histoire  de  1'art 
186 


"  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 

contemporain,  aussi  bien  a  I'e'tranger  qui 
chez  nous." 

If  for  Maeterlinck  himself  the  warning 
be  not 'called  for,  certainly  for  most  of  les 
Jeunes  in  Belgium  and  France  there  is  need 
to  remember,  to  take  to  heart,  the  scornful 
words  of  a  great  literary  artist  admired  of 
them  all : 

Dors  !     L'impure  laideur  est  la  reine  du  monde, 
Et  nous  avons  perdu  le  chemin  de  Paros. 

It  is  not  the  least  of  M.  Maeterlinck's 
honours  that  he  is  worthy  to  be  ranged 
under  the  banner  of  Leconte  de  Lisle. 

But  what  we  have  to  bear  in  mind  mean- 
while is  that  a  new  method  is  coming  into 
literature,  and  that  the  way  has  been  shown 
by  the  "  Jeune  Belgique  "  pioneers.  Maurice 
Maeterlinck  is  one  of  those  pioneers,  and 
one  deserving  of  singular  honour ;  for  it  is 
not  in  the  accidents  of  his  dramatic  expres- 
sion that  he  is  the  original  writer,  but  in 
that  quality  of  insight,  that  phrasing,  that 
atmosphere,  which  is  his  own. 


187 


SAINTE-BEUVE 

AMONG  the  innumerable  apt  quotations  from 
Sainte-Beuve  with  which  an  essay  upon 
that  sovereign  critic  might  fittingly  be 
introduced,  I  doubt  if  there  be  any  better 
than  this  :  "  I  have  but  one  diversion,  one 
pursuit  :  I  analyse,  I  botanise,  I  am  a 
naturalist  of  minds.  What  I  would  fain 
create  is  Literary  Natural  History."  He 
was,  and  is,  unquestionably  the  foremost 
"naturaliste  des  esprits  "  :  in  literary  natu- 
ral history  he  is  at  once  the  Buffon  and 
Humboldt,  the  Linnaeus  and  Cuvier,  the 
Darwin  even,  of  scientific  criticism.  He  was 
not  a  great  inventor,  a  new  creative  force,  it 
is  true  ;  but  he  was,  so  to  say,  one  of  the 
foremost  practical  engineers  in  literature, — 
he  altered  the  course  of  the  alien  stream  of 
criticism,  compelled  its  waters  to  be  tribu- 
tary to  the  main  river,  and  gave  it  a  new 
impetus,  an  irresistible  energy,  a  fresh  and 
vital  importance. 


188 


Sainte-Beuve 

I 

During  the  ten  or  twelve  years  in  which 
I  have  been  a  systematic  reader  of  Sainte- 
Beuve,  I  have  often  wondered  if  his  literary 
career  would  have  been  a  very  different  one 
from  what  we  know  it  if  he  had  been  born 
ere  the  parental  tides  of  life  were  already 
on  the  ebb.  Students  of  physiology  are 
well  aware  of  the  fact  that  children  born  of 
parents  beyond  the  prime  of  life  are,  in  the 
first  degree,  inferior  in  physique  to  those 
born,  say,  to  a  father  of  thirty  years  of 
age,  and  to  a  mother  five-and- twenty  years 
old ;  and,  in  the  second  degree,  that  the 
children  of  parents  married  after  the  prime 
of  life  are,  as  a  rule,  less  emotional  than 
those  born  of  a  union  in  the  more  ardent 
and  excitable  years  of  youth.  It  is  because 
in  the  Life,  Poems,  and  Thoughts  of  Joseph 
Delorme,  in  Les  Consolations,  in  the  Pensees 
d'Aout,  I  for  one  find  so  much  which  is 
praiseworthy,  which  is  excellent  even,  that 
I  have  often  wondered  if,  his  natal  cir- 
cumstances having  been  other  than  they 
were,  the  author  who  has  become  so  cele- 
brated for  his  inimitable  Causeries  du  Lundi 
might  have  become  famous  as  a  poet. 
That  the  keen  subjectivity  of  emotion 
189 


Sainte-Beuve 

which  is  at  the  base  of  the  poetic  nature 
was  his  may  be  inferred  from  a  hundred 
hints  throughout  his  writings ;  he  was 
very  far  from  being  what  some  one  has 
called  him,  a  "  mere  bloodless  critic,  serenely 
impartial  because  of  his  imperturbable 
pulse."  To  cite  a  single  example  :  in  one 
of  his  Notes  et  Remarques,  printed  in  M. 
Pierrot's  appendical  volume  (tome  xvime.) 
to  the  collected  Causeries  du  Lundi,  he  says, 
a  propos  of  his  novel  Volupte  :  "  Why  do  I 
not  write  another  novel  ?  To  write  a  romance 
was  for  me  but  another,  an  indirect  way  of 
being  in  love,  and  to  say  so."  It  was  not 
"a  mere  bloodless  critic"  who  penned 
that  remark.  But,  withal,  in  his  poetry, 
in  his  essays,  in  his  critiques,  in  the  episodes 
of  his  long  and  intellectually  active  life,  it 
is  obvious  to  the  discerning  reader  that 
Sainte-Beuve  rarely  attained  to  the  white- 
heat  of  emotion  for  any  length  of  time ; 
that  a  cold  wave  of  serene  judgment,  of 
ennui  often  enough,  speedily  dissipated  the 
intoxication  of  spiritual  ardour.  But  in 
those  white-heat  moments  he  touches  so 
fine  a  note,  reaches  so  high  a  level,  that  one 
realises  the  poet  within  him  is  not  buried  so 
deep  below  his  ordinary  self  as  the  com- 
mon judgment  would  have  us  believe.  The 
190 


Sainte-Beuve 

century  has  been  rich  in  poetic  literature, 
while  there  have  been  few  eminent  critics, — 
till  Sainte-Beuve  no  French  critic  great 
by  virtue  of  the  art  of  criticism  alone.  It 
is  only  since  the  advent  of  Sainte-Beuve, 
indeed,  that  criticism  has  come  to  be  accepted 
as  an  art — that  is,  in  France  ;  for  amongst 
us  criticism,  as  distinct  from  conventional 
book-reviewing,  can  at  most  be  said  merely 
to  exist. 

In  the  invaluable  autobiographical  frag- 
ment which  was  found  among  his  papers 
on  the  morrow  of  his  death,  Sainte-Beuve 
states  that  he  was  brought  up  by  his  mother, 
who  had  been  left,  a  few  months  after  her 
marriage,  a  widow  with  sadly  straitened 
means  yet  not  in  extreme  poverty,  and  by 
a  sister  of  his  father,  who  united  her  slender 
income  to  that  of  Mme.  Sainte-Beuve,  thus 
enabling  the  small  family  of  three  to  live 
in  comparative  comfort.  The  boy  was  care- 
fully educated  at  the  lay  school  of  a  M. 
Ble'riot,  and  was  particularly  well  grounded 
in  Latin.  His  intellectual  development  was 
rapid.  He  had  scarcely  entered  upon  his 
teens  before  he  had  become  a  student,  and 
his  mother,  sympathetic  and  intelligent  if 
not  actively  intellectual,  gave  him  every 
encouragement.  It  was  at  this  time  that 
191 


Sainte-Beuve 

he  read  many  of  the  books  which  bore  his 
father's  marginalia ;  and  no  doubt  the 
mere  circumstance  of  annotation  impressed 
him  with  the  importance  of  the  subject- 
matter.  Some  ten  years  or  so  later  he  alluded, 
in  one  of  his  poems,  to  his  father  and  his 
indirect  influence  upon  him  : 

' '  Mon  pere  ainsi  sentait.   Si,  ne  dans  sa  mart  meme, 
Ma  memoire  n'eut  pas  son  image  supreme, 
II  m'a  laisse  du  mains  son  ame  el  son  esprit, 
Et  son  gout  tout  entier  d  chaque  marge  ecrit." 

What  is  even  more  noteworthy  is  his  con- 
sciousness of  his  educational  shortcomings 
when,  in  his  fourteenth  year,  he  realised  that 
he  was  not  likely  to  learn  anything  more  at 
M.  Bleiiot's  school.  "  I  felt  strongly  how 
much  I  lacked"  :  and  in  this  persuasion  he 
urged  his  mother  to  take,  or  send,  him  to 
Paris.  It  was  not  an  easy  thing  for  the  widow 
to  do,  but  she  managed  to  send  him  to  the 
capital  (September  1818),  and  to  arrange 
for  his  board  with  a  M.  Landry,  a  man  of 
some  note,  who  had  formerly  been  a  pro- 
fessor at  the  College  of  Louis-le-Grand, 
and  was  a  mathematician  and  philosopher. 
At  the  house  of  this  esprit  libre  in  the  Rue 
de  la  Cerisail — this  free-thinker,  as  Sainte- 
Beuve  calls  him — the  young  scholar  met 
192 


Sainte-Beuve 

several  men  of  high  standing  in  the  world 
of  letters,  among  them  certain  eminent 
students  of  science.  He  seems  to  have 
been  noticed  by  them,  though  he  did  not 
quite  relish  being  treated  as  a  hobbledehoy, 
"  as  a  big  boy,  as  a  little  man."  He  was  an 
instinctive  student :  to  learn  was  as  natural 
to  him  as  to  play  is  easy  for  most  boys, 
and  yet  he  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
devoid  of  the  gaiety  and  even  abandon  of 
youth.  At  the  College  of  Charlemagne,  at 
the  end  of  the  first  year  of  his  attendance, 
he  took  part  in  the  general  competition 
and  succeeded  in  carrying  off  the  highest 
prize  for  history ;  and  in  the  following 
year,  at  the  Bourbon  College,  he  gained 
the  prize  for  Latin  verse,  and  had  the  further 
distinction  of  a  Governmental  award,  in 
the  form  of  a  medal,  as  a  special  recognition 
of  his  scholarly  achievements.  One  of  his 
school  friends,  Charles  Potier,  the  son  of 
the  eminent  actor,  and  himself  afterwards 
successful  on  the  stage,  has  put  on  record 
his  recollection  of  how  he  and  Sainte-Beuve 
acted  the  familiar  old  parts  of  the  clever 
and  the  stupid  boy  ;  how  while  he  dug  or 
hoed  the  garden-plot  which  had  been 
allotted  to  them,  the  other  Charles  sat 
idly  by,  obliviously  engaged  in  some  book  or 
II  193  N 


Sainte-Beuve 

indolently  abstracted  ;   and  how,  in  return, 
he  was  helped  by  his  friend  in  the  uncon- 
genial task  of  class-exercises.    Sainte-Beuve 
was  free  to  spend  his  evenings  as  he  chose, 
and  he  voluntarily  studied  medical  science, 
at  first  with  the  full  intention  of  becoming 
a  physician,  later  with  the  idea  of  making 
the  philosophical  study  of  physiology  and 
chemistry  his  specialities,  and,  finally,  simply 
for  the  value  of  the  training  and  its  bearing 
upon  that  new  science  of  literature  which 
he  was  one  of  the  earliest  to  apprehend  as  a 
complex  unity.     The  lectures  of  Messieurs 
Magendie,  Robiquet,  and  Blainville,  respec- 
tively   upon    physiology,    chemistry,    and 
natural  history,  interested  him  profoundly. 
"  I  went  every  evening  to  these  lectures 
at  the  Athenee,  off  the  Palais  Royal,  from 
seven  to  ten  o'clock,"  he  says  in  his  auto- 
biographical fragment,  "and  also  to  some 
literary  lectures."    It  was  natural  that  this 
preoccupation  with  strictly  scientific  study 
should  bias  his  mind  to  the  materialistic 
school  of  thought ;  and  one  is  not  surprised 
to  learn,  on  the  authority  of  D'Haussonville, 
his  biographer,  that  in  his  own  judgment 
he  had  reached  his  true  ground,  "  mon  fonds 
veritable,"  in    the  most  pronounced  eigh- 
teenth-century materialism.     It  is,  however, 
194 


Sainte-Beuve 

interesting  and  suggestive  to  note  that  even 
at  that  time  Sainte-Beuve  was  dominated 
by  his  exceptional  mental  receptivity  ;  that 
he  was  swayed  this  way  and  that  by  the 
intellectual  duality  which  has  puzzled  so 
many  of  his  readers.  Daunou  and  Lamarck 
were  his  prophets  ;  by  them  he  swore,  their 
words  contained  the  authentic  gospel ;  but 
the  same  week,  perhaps,  as  that  in  which  he 
proclaimed  his  enfranchisement  from  the 
most  abstract  Deism,  he  would  announce 
his  convicton  that  a  Supreme  Power 
controlled  the  tides  of  life — as  when  he 
wrote  to  his  friend,  afterwards  the  Abbe 
Barbe,  distinctly  asserting  his  recognition  of 
God  as  "  the  source  of  all  things."  The 
mystic  in  him  was  always  side  by  side  with 
the  physiologist,  the  unflinching  analyst, 
just  as  the  poet  was  ever  comrade  to  the 
critic.  It  is  to  this,  indeed,  that  Sainte- 
Beuve  owes  his  pre-eminence,  to  this  that 
is  to  be  traced  the  fundamental  secret  of 
his  spell.  In  later  life  he  was  fully  conscious 
of  his  indebtedness  to  those  early  medical 
and  scientific  studies  ;  and  many  will  call  to 
mind  his  famous  defence  of  the  Faculty,  in 
the  Senate  of  the  Second  Empire,  when  an 
attempt  was  made  to  limit  the  medical 
professors  in  Governmental  institutions  in 
195 


Sainte-Beuve 

the  free  expression  of  their  views.  The  very 
least  he  could  do,  he  declared,  was  to  give 
his  testimony  in  favour  of  that  Faculty  to 
which  he  owed  the  philosophical  spirit,  the 
love  of  exactitude  and  of  physiological 
reality,  and  "  such  good  method  as  may  have 
entered  into  my  writings."  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  his  early  scientific  training  was  of  the 
highest  value.  It  is  possible  that,  with  his 
strong  religious  bias,  if  he  had  been  educated 
at  an  ecclesiastical  seminary  he  would  have 
become  one  of  the  great  company  led  by 
Pascal  and  Bossuet,  a  spiritual  comrade  of 
his  contemporaries  Lamennais  and  Lacor- 
daire  ;  that,  but  for  his  liaison  with  radical 
materialism,  the  art,  the  science  of  Criticism, 
would  have  remained  half  formless  and  in- 
determinate, and  have  waited  long  for  its 
first  great  master. 

His  several  scientific  excursions  led  to  his 
following  the  regular  course  in  the  study 
of  medicine  ;  and,  with  the  goal  of  a  medical 
career  in  view,  he  was  an  assiduous  student 
till  1827,  when  he  was  in  his  twenty-third 
year.  At  that  date  an  event  occurred  which 
determined  his  particular  line  of  energy. 
But  before  this  he  had  already  begun  to 
write.  These  tentative  efforts,  in  verse 
and  prose,  conventional  though  they  were, 
196 


Sainte-Beuve 

encouraged  him  to  believe  that  he  had 
the  literary  faculty,  though  even  then  his 
sense  of  style  was  so  developed  that  he 
realised  how  wide  was  the  gulf  between 
mere  facility  and  a  vital  dominating  impulse. 
His  mother,  who  had  come  from  Boulogne 
to  watch  over  her  son,  saw  these  literary 
indications  with  an  annoyance  which  grew 
into  alarm ;  for  at  that  time  the  literary 
career  was  rarely  a  remunerative  one,  and, 
moreover,  her  heart  was  set  upon  her  son's 
success  as  a  physician  or  collegiate  pro- 
fessor of  medicine.  It  was  not,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  till  his  election  to  the  Academy 
that  she  admitted  the  wisdom  of  his  early 
decision ;  and  even  then  she  complained, 
and  not  without  justice,  of  the  terrible  wear 
and  tear  of  an  unceasingly  active  literary 
life.  Mme.  Sainte-Beuve,  who  lived  with 
her  son  till  her  death  at  the  goodly  age  of 
eighty -six,  seems  to  have  been  an  intelli- 
gent and  sympathetic  rather  than  an  intel- 
lectually clever  woman  ;  and  though  her 
always  affectionate  Charles  loved  and  ad- 
mired her,  it  would  not  appear  that  he 
enjoyed  with  her  any  rare  mental  com- 
munion. 

The  youth  who  at  the  College  of  Charle- 
magne had  gained  the  History  prize  attracted 
197 


Sainte-Beuve 

the  particular  attention  of  his  professor, 
M.  Dubois.  A  friendship,  as  intimate  as 
practicable  in  the  circumstances,  ensued  ; 
and  when,  in  1824,  M.  Dubois  founded  the 
Globe,  the  journal  which  ere  long  became 
so  famous  and  so  influential  both  in  politics 
and  literature,  he  asked  Sainte-Beuve  to 
join  the  staff  as  an  occasional  contributor. 
This  was  a  remarkable  compliment,  for  the 
young  student  was  quite  unknown,  and  had 
done  nothing  to  warrant  such  an  honour ; 
so  it  is  clear  that  M.  Dubois  must  have  had 
a  strong  opinion  as  to  the  young  man's 
capabilities.  Sainte-Beuve  was  all  the  more 
gratified  because  the  staff  of  writers  who  had 
promised  their  practical  support  comprised 
men  so  famous  as  Guizot  and  Victor  Cousin, 
Jouffroy,  Ampere,  Merimee,  De  Broglie,  and 
Villemain.  It  was  not  long  before  the  Globe 
became  a  power  in  Paris,  and  thereafter 
throughout  France  and  Northern  Europe  : 
even  the  great  Goethe  read  it  regularly,  and 
alluded  to  it  in  terms  of  cordial  praise.  It 
was  regarded  as  the  organ  of  the  principal 
exponents  of  that  earlier  Romantic  move- 
ment which  made  the  latter  years  of  the 
Restoration  so  brilliant,  and  worked  like 
powerful  yeast  through  contemporary 
thought  and  literature.  Politically,  it  was 
198 


Sainte-Beuve 

the  mouthpiece  of  those  who  were  charac- 
terised as  les  Doctrinaires.  Naturally  the 
young  medical  student,  who  had  scarce 
unsheathed  his  virginal  literary  sword,  was 
not  among  the  first  contributors.  When 
M.  Dubois  did  entrust  to  him  several  short 
reviews,  he  did  not  allow  these  to  appear 
without  scrupulous  revision  on  his  own  part. 
They  did  not  attract  any  particular  notice  : 
few  were  curious  as  to  the  personality  of 
the  critic  whose  articles  appeared  above 
the  initials  "  S.  B."  But  the  editor  soon 
discovered  that  his  youngest  contributor  was 
quite  able  to  stand  alone  so  far  as  literary 
craftsmanship  was  concerned.  One  day  he 
delighted  the  novice  by  saying  to  him, 
"  Now  you  know  how  to  write  ;  henceforth 
you  can  go  alone."  Confidence  helped  style, 
and  Parisian  men  of  letters  read  with  appre- 
ciative interest  the  new  recruit's  articles 
on  Thiers'  Histoire  de  la  Revolution  and 
Mignet's  Tableau  of  the  same  epoch.  He 
may  be  said  to  have  definitely  gained  his 
place  as  a  recognised  literary  critic  by  the 
time  that  he  had  published  his  able  and 
scholarly  review  of  Alfred  de  Vigny's  Cinq 
Mars.  It  was  still  before  he  had  finally 
given  up  a  medical  career  that,  by  means  of 
a  review,  he  formed  a  new  acquaintanceship 
199 


Sainte-Beuve 

which  was  to  prove  of  great  importance  to 
him,  and  that  not  only  as  a  man  of  letters. 
One  morning,  late  in  1826,  he  chanced  to  call 
upon  M.  Dubois,  who  was  engaged  in  turning 
over  the  pages  of  two  volumes  of  Odes  and 
Ballads,  which  he  had  just  received.  The 
editor  of  the  Globe  asked  Sainte-Beuve  to 
review  them,  having  first  explained  that 
they  were  by  an  acquaintance  of  his,  "a 
young  barbarian  of  talent,"  interesting  on 
account  of  his  forceful  character  and  the 
incidents  of  his  life — Victor  Hugo.  The 
volumes  were  duly  carried  off,  read,  re-read 
and  reviewed.  When  the  critic  took  his 
MS.  to  his  editor  he  told  the  latter  that  this 
Victor  Hugo  was  not  such  a  barbarian 
after  all,  but  a  man  of  genius.  The  review 
appeared  in  the  issue  of  the  Globe  for 
January  2,  1827 ;  and  it  is  interesting 
to  know  that  among  the  earliest  foreign 
readers  of  it  was  Goethe,  who  on  the  4th 
expressed  to  Eckermann  his  appreciation  of 
Hugo,  and  his  belief  that  the  young  poet's 
fortunes  were  assured  since  he  had  the 
Globe  on  his  side.  And  of  course  the  author 
of  Odes  et  Ballades  was  delighted.  He  called 
upon  M.  Dubois,  enthusiastically  expressed 
his  gratification,  maugre  the  few  strictures 
upon  his  poetic  and  metrical  extravagances 
200 


Sainte-Beuve 

which  the  article  contained,  and  begged  for 
the  address  of  the  writer.  The  critic  was 
out  when  the  poet  called,  but  a  return 
visit  was  speedily  made.  No  doubt  Sainte- 
Beuve  was  not  the  man  to  regret  any 
useful  experience,  and  yet  one  may  question, 
from  knowledge  of  the  man  in  his  later 
years,  if,  could  he  have  relieved  and  at  the 
same  time  refashioned  the  drift  of  his  life, 
he  would  have  made  that  eventful  call. 
From  it,  indirectly,  arose  his  "  one  critical 
crime,"  that  of  wilful  blindness  to  short- 
comings because  of  the  influence  of  per- 
sonal charm  ;  and  to  it,  also,  was  due  the 
"  romantic  "  prose  and  poetry  of  the  morbid 
and  supersensitive  Joseph  Delorme.  Poeti- 
cally, in  a  word,  he  would  not  have  had 
what  he  calls  somewhere  his  "  liaison  avec 
1'ecole  poetique  de  Victor  Hugo."  On  the 
other  hand,  he  owed  much  to  his  intimacy 
with  the  Hugos  and  their  circle,  which  at 
that  time  comprised  Alfred  de  Vigny, 
Lamartine,  Musset,  and  other  ardent  repre- 
sentatives of  Jeune  France.  The  recollection 
of  his  critical  reception  of  Alfred  de  Musset 
was  always,  in  late  years,  one  of  Sainte- 
Beuve's  thorns  in  the  flesh.  But  the  accusa- 
tion which  has  been  made,  that  he  was 
chagrined  by  the  poet's  manner  to  him 
201 


Sainte-Beuve 

when  they  first  met,  and  that  the  critic 
allowed  his  personal  resentment  to  bias  his 
judgment,  is  ridiculous.  The  contrary  is 
proved  by  the  passage  in  Ma  Biographic 
(Nouveaux  Lundis,  tome  xiii.),  where  the 
author  expressly  recounts  the  circumstances. 
Sainte-Beuve  was  impressed  by  Victor 
Hugo's  genius  and  captivated  by  his  per- 
sonal charm  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  he 
was  fascinated  by  Madame  Hugo.  He 
became  an  intimate  friend ;  saw  the  poet 
at  least  twice  daily ;  praised,  admired, 
wrote  about  the  beautiful  Adele — and, 
indeed,  became  so  enthusiastically  friendly 
that  the  brilliant  group  which  formed  Le 
Cenacle  (the  Guest-Chamber),  a  club  of 
kindred  spirits  in  the  several  arts,  must 
have  thought  that  their  latest  recruit  was 
qualifying  to  be  the  prophet  of  woman's 
supremacy  in  all  things.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  Hugo  circle  was  not  fettered  by 
severe  social  conventionalities ;  yet  even 
the  self-confident  Victor  made  objections 
when  he  found  his  numerous  friends,  from 
the  polished  Alfred  de  Vigny  and  the  senti- 
mental Lamartine  to  "  Musset  PEnnuye  " 
and  the  brilliant  light-hearted  essayist,  whom 
Monselet  afterwards  with  so  much  justice 
called  "  the  smiling  critic  "  (le  critique 
202 


Sainte-Beuve 

souriani),  freely  addressing  his  wife  as  Adele. 
As  for  Sainte-Beuve,  his  complaint  was 
so  severe  that,  though  he  laughed  at  it 
afterwards  as  a  flirtation  with  Romanticism, 
it  might  best  be  called  Adelaisme.  This  one- 
sided passion  was  no  doubt  the  mainspring 
of  the  sufferings,  thoughts,  and  poesies  of 
the  melancholy  Joseph  Delorme,  the  Gallic 
counterpart  of  the  much  more  unendurable 
Werther.  True,  something  of  Sainte-  Beuve's 
deeper  melancholy  of  "  seriousness  "  may 
have  been  due  to  his  remote  English  strain, 
and  his  splenetic  temperament  to  the  fact 
that  his  mother  passed  several  dolorous 
months  between  his  birth  and  the  death  of 
her  husband.  It  seems  strange  that  so 
acute  a  critic  of  literary  physiology  should 
not  have  seen  that  his  "  spleen  "  was  due 
more  to  want  of  outdoor  life  and  to  incessant 
mental  preoccupation,  and  (in  the  "  Joseph 
Delorme "  period)  to  what  I  have  called 
Adelaisme ,  than  to  the  circumstance  of 
his  mother  having  borne  him  during  months 
of  widowhood,  or  to  that  of  his  grand- 
mother having  been  an  Englishwoman. 
Although  he  was  never  married,  Sainte- 
Beuve  was  of  a  susceptible  nature.  There  is 
absolutely  no  warrant  for  the  belief  that  he 
was  so  deeply  in  love  with  Adele  Hugo  that  his 
203 


Sainte-Beuve 

whole  life  was  affected  by  the  blight  of  unre- 
quited affection.  On  the  contrary,  if  he  was 
the  critique  souriant  in  the  world  of  literature, 
he  was  the  critique  gai  in  the  affairs  of  life. 

For  a  time  everything  prospered  with  Le 
Cenacle.  Then  one  member  and  then  another 
grew  lukewarm  or  directly  seceded.    Sainte- 
Beuve  slowly  diverged  from  the  views  he  had 
allowed  himself  to  expound,  overborne  as 
he  had  been  by  the  charm  of  Victor  and  the 
fascination  of  Madame  Hugo.    The  already 
famous  poet  does  not  seem  to  have  had  any 
particularly  high  appreciation  of  his  critical 
friend  as  a  man  of  letters  ;   indeed,  Sainte- 
Beuve  was  commonly  regarded  as  nothing 
more  than,   at  most,   a  conscientious  and 
able  critic,  with  genuine  enough  but  mediocre 
original  powers.  In  the  first  flush  of  intimacy, 
however,  Hugo  was  as  immoderate  in  his 
praise  of  his  new  acquaintance  as  was  his 
wont  in  the  matter  of  superlatives.      But 
when   the    "eagle,"    the    "royal   meteor," 
ceased  from  the  making  of  critical  honey, 
when,  in  giving  a  present  of  a  book,  he  no 
more  inscribed  above  his  signature  on  the 
flyleaf  such  pleasant  phrases  as,   "  To  the 
greatest    lyrical    inventor    French    poetry 
has  known  since    Ronsard,"   but,    instead, 
uttered    such    words    as     "theatricality," 
204 


Sainte-Beuve 

"violence,"  "eccentricity  " — then  there  was 
a  cooling  of  enthusiasm. 

But  about  this  time,  and  indirectly  owing 
to  the  Hugo  connection,  two  important 
things  happened.  A  journalistic  and  literary 
career  was  opened  to  Sainte-Beuve.  He  at 
once  availed  himself  of  the  chance ;  so 
eager  was  he,  indeed,  that  he  left  his  sur- 
geon's case  at  St.  Louis's  Hospital,  where 
he  had  been  a  day-pupil,  and  it  is  said 
that  he  never  went  back  for  it.  His  voca- 
tion was  in  the  art  of  literature,  not  in  the 
science  of  medicine.  As  soon  as  he  realised 
this,  and  saw  his  way  to  a  possibility  of 
living  by  the  pen,  he  not  only  busied  himself 
as  a  journalist,  but  prepared  to  undertake 
an  ambitious  literary  task,  a  work  of  real 
magnitude.  Probably  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Victor  Hugo  and  Sainte-Beuve's  ardent  if 
transient  romanticism,  the  admirable  studies 
on  The  French  Poetry  of  the  Sixteenth  Cen- 
tury would  not  have  been  written — not 
then,  at  any  rate,  nor  in  the  form  in 
which  we  know  them.  The  critic  had 
been  impressed  by  the  enthusiasm  of  Hugo 
and  his  circle  for  the  early  poets.  He 
read,  studied,  and  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  these  were  unworthily  neglected.  He 
discerned  in  them,  moreover,  the  poetic 
205 


Sainte-Beuve 

ancestors  of  the  enthusiastic  members  of  Le 
Cenacle  ;  both  were  unconventional,  indi- 
vidual, comparatively  simple.  The  series  of 
studies  which,  as  the  result,  appeared  in 
the  Globe  delighted  the  writer's  friends  and 
attracted  no  little  share  of  literary  attention ; 
but  it  was  not  till  the  publication  of  them 
collectively  in  book  form  that  Sainte-Beuve's 
name  became  widely  known  as  that  of  a 
scholarly  and,  above  all,  an  independent 
critic.  It  was  the  prevalent  literary  vogue 
to  decry  the  pre-classicists,  or,  at  least,  to 
affirm  that  there  was  little  of  abiding  worth 
prior  to  Moliere,  Racine,  and  Corneille.  By 
insight,  critical  acumen,  felicitous  quota- 
tion, and  a  light  and  graceful  while  incisive 
style  (not,  however,  characterised  by  the 
limpid  delicacy  and  suppleness  of  his  best 
manner,  as  in  the  Causeries  du  Lundi),  he 
won  many  admirers  and  did  good  service 
to  literature,  and  particularly  to  literary 
criticism. 

From  this  time  forward  Sainte-Beuve's 
career  was  a  prosperous  one,  chequered  now 
and  again  indeed,  but  in  the  main  happy 
and  marvellously  fruitful.  For  some  years 
he  dreamed  of  poetic  fame  ;  gradually  he 
realised  that  his  well-loved  Life,  Poetry,  and 
Thoughts  of  Joseph  Delorme,  his  Consolations, 
206 


Sainte-Beuve 

and  his  August  Thoughts  would  never  appeal 
to  a  public  outside  the  literary  world  of 
Paris,  and  even  there  that  they  were  assured 
of  mere  respect  at  most ;  and  finally  he 
became  convinced  that  it  was  neither  as 
poet  nor  as  novelist,  but  as  critic,  that  he 
was  to  win  the  laurels  of  fame.  To  the  last, 
however,  he  had  a  tender  feeling  for  his 
poetic  performances,  and  there  was  no  surer 
way  to  his  good  graces  than  admiration  of 
his  poems.  The  most  unsympathetic  critic 
cannot  regret  Sainte-Beuve's  having  devoted 
so  much  time  and  so  many  hopes  to  those 
springtide  blossoms  of  a  summer  that  never 
came.  At  the  least,  they  helped  their 
author  to  a  wide  sympathy,  to  a  deep 
insight,  to  that  catholicity  of  taste  which 
enabled  him  not  only  to  enjoy  for  himself, 
but  to  interpret  for  others,  the  essential 
merits  of  a  great  number  of  poets, — writers 
so  absolutely  distinct  as  Virgil  and  Victor 
Hugo,  Villon  and  William  Cowper,  Dante 
and  Firdausi,  Theocritus  and  Moli6re,  Ron- 
sard  and  Racine. 

When  Dr.  Veron  founded  in  1829  the 
Revue  de  Paris,  the  predecessor  of  the  more 
famous  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  he  made 
haste  to  enrol  Sainte-Beuve  among  his 
contributors.  He  thought  it  possible  that 
207 


Sainte-Beuve 

the  poet  might  make  a  great  name,  but  he 
was  quite  convinced  that  the  critic  would 
become  a  prince  of  his  tribe.  The  result 
of  his  trust  was  more  than  satisfactory. 
Although  Sainte-Beuve  was  only  five-  or  six- 
and- twenty  when  he  wrote  his  articles  on 
Boileau,  Racine,  La  Fontaine,  Rousseau, 
Andre  Chenier,  and  others,  how  admirable 
they  are,  and  how  well  worth  perusal  even 
at  the  present  date !  In  style,  it  is  true, 
they  are  graceful  and  scholarly  rather  than 
winsome  with  individual  charm,  for  the 
latter  does  not  become  a  characteristic  of 
his  work  till  he  has  reached  the  noon  of 
his  maturity ;  but,  even  with  this  qualifi- 
cation, they  are  unquestionably  delightful 
reading. 

In  the  summer  of  1830  Sainte-Beuve  was 
in  Normandy,  at  Honfleur,  on  a  visit  to 
his  friend  Ulric  Guttinguer,  when  the  July 
Revolution  overthrew  many  institutions 
besides  that  of  the  old  monarchy.  With  the 
advent  of  Louis  Philippe  arose  schism  among 
the  brilliant  staff  of  the  Globe.  Some  main- 
tained that  the  hour  had  come  in  which  to 
cry  "  Halt  "  to  further  innovations  ;  one  or 
two  wavered  and  talked  of  compromise  ; 
the  more  strenuous  affirmed  that  there  was 
as  pressing  need  of  progress  as  ever.  Among 
208 


Sainte-Beuve 

the  progressists  was  Sainte-Beuve,  who  had 
hurried  back  to  Paris.     The  Globe  became 
the    organ    of    the    Saint-Simonians ;     and 
though  Sainte-Beuve  never  identified  him- 
self  with   the   school   of   Saint-Simon,    he 
fought  valiantly  as  a  free-lance  by  the  side 
of  its  exponents.     But,  before  this  change 
in  the  destiny  of  the  paper  (for,  after  the 
split,  it  abruptly  lost  its  place  in  the  van 
of  Parisian  journals,  and  was  sold  at  a  loss 
to  a  sanguine  experimentalist,  who  in  turn 
speedily    disposed    of    it    to    the    Saint- 
Simonians),  a  tragi-comedy,  in  which  Sainte- 
Beuve  and  his  former  good  friend  M.  Dubois 
were  the  chief  actors,  occurred.     The  clash 
of   opinions   at    the   editorial   office   begat 
heated  discussions,  reproaches,  taunts  even. 
Dubois  reminded  Sainte-Beuve,  in  not  very 
complimentary  terms,  of  how  he  had  given 
him   a   lift   into   the   literary   world ;     the 
critic  made  a  scathing  reply.     The  blood 
of  all  the  Dubois  boiled  in  the  veins  of  the 
worthy  editor,   and  he  challenged  Sainte- 
Beuve  to  mortal  combat.  So  high  did  feeling 
run  that  the  matter  was  really  a  serious 
one,   though  we  may    hesitate    to    accept 
the  great   critic's    after-statement  that  he 
went  to  the  duel  with  the  full  intention  of 
killing  his  adversary.     It  was  the  Joseph 
ii  209  o 


Sainte-Beuve 

Delorme  lying  latent  in  Charles  Augustin 
Sainte-Beuve  who  made  this  affirmation. 
The  preliminaries  of  the  duel  were  arranged 
with  all  circumspection ;  both  antagonists 
made  their  wills  and  felt  alternately  heroic 
and  despondent ;  and  at  last  the  hour  came. 
It  was  a  chill  and  wretched  morning,  for 
the  rain  came  down  in  a  steady  pour. 
What  was  the  astonishment  of  M.  Dubois 
and  the  seconds  of  both  principals  to  see 
Sainte-Beuve  take  up  his  position  with  his 
pistol  in  his  right  hand  and  his  unfolded 
umbrella  upheld  by  his  left.  To  the  remon- 
strances of  the  seconds,  he  protested  that 
he  was  willing  to  be  shot,  if  need  be — but 
to  be  drenched,  no  !  (Je  veux  bien  etre  tue  ; 
mais  mouille,  non.)  Four  shots  were  ex- 
changed, and  editor  and  critic  remained 
unhurt.  Neither  their  ill-success  nor  the 
rain  damped  their  bloodthirstiness,  however, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  firm  remon- 
strances of  the  seconds,  who  declared  that 
the  demands  of  honour  had  been  amply 
satisfied,  one  or  other  of  the  combatants 
would  have  suffered  for  his  folly.  Happily, 
this  was  Sainte-Beuve's  sole  martial  expe- 
rience. As  one  of  his  detractors  long  after- 
wards maliciously  remarked,  thenceforth  he 
confined  himself  to  stabbing  with  the  pen, 

2iO 


Sainte-Beuve 

and  to  destroying  literary  reputations  by  a 
causerie. 

Sainte-Beuve's  renewed  connection  with 
the  Globe  was  not  of  long  duration.  His 
only  interest  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Saint- 
Simonians  was  one  of  curiosity :  neither 
more  nor  less  than  he,  pre-eminently  the 
hedonist  of  modern  literature,  felt  in  those 
of  the  enthusiasts  who  were  bent  upon  recon- 
ciling democratic  and  radical  politics  with 
the  most  conservative  Roman  Catholicism. 
Although  he  knew  and  admired  Lacordaire, 
Lamennais,  and  Montalembert,  he  refused  to 
co-operate  with  them  in  the  writing  of  articles 
for  their  journalistic  organ,  UAvenir.  These 
eminent  men  were  not  alone  in  their  inability 
to  understand  Sainte-Beuve's  mental  tem- 
perament. They  thought  that  because  he 
seemed  profoundly  interested  he  was  there- 
fore a  disciple.  But  the  foremost  critic  of 
the  day  was  a  man  of  a  passionate  intellectual 
curiosity  :  his  sovereign  need  was  for  new 
mental  intellectual  impressions.  It  was  his 
insatiable  curiosity  into  all  manifestations 
of  mental  activity,  as  much  as  his  exceptional 
receptivity,  elasticity  of  sympathy,  searching 
insight,  and  extraordinary  synthetic  faculty, 
that  enabled  him  to  become  the  master- 
critic.  His  catholicity  of  taste  was  his 

211 


Sainte-Beuve 

strength,  as  with  others  it  is  often  a  source 
of  weakness.  It  was  not  through  inability 
to  find  anchorage  in  the  sea  of  truth  that  his 
was  a  restless  barque,  with  sails  trimmed 
for  seafaring  again  as  soon  as  a  haven  was 
entered ;  it  was  because  he  was  a  literary 
viking,  consumed  with  a  passion  for  mental 
voyaging  and  remote  explorations — because 
he  loved  the  deep  sea,  and  found  that  even 
the  profoundest  inlets,  the  grandest  bays, 
were  too  shallow  for  him  to  rest  content 
therein. 

"  No  one,"  he  says,  "  ever  went  through  more 
mental  vicissitudes  than  I  have  done.  I  began 
my  intellectual  life  as  an  uncompromising  adherent 
of  the  most  advanced  form  of  eighteenth-century 
thought,  as  exemplified  by  Tracy,  Daunou, 
Lamarck,  and  the  physiologists  :  Id  est  mon  fonds 
veritable.  Then  I  passed  through  the  psychological 
and  doctrinaire  school  as  represented  by  my 
confreres  on  the  Globe,  but  without  giving  it  my 
unqualified  adhesion.  For  a  time  thereafter  I 
had  my  liaison  with  the  school  of  Victor  Hugo,  and 
seemed  to  lose  myself  in  poetical  romanticism. 
Later,  I  fared  by  the  margins  of  Saint-Simonism, 
and,  soon  thereafter,  Liberal-Catholicism  as  repre- 
sented by  Lamennais  and  his  group.  In  1837, 
when  residing  at  Lausanne,  I  glided  past  Calvinism 
and  Methodism  .  .  .  but  in  all  these  wanderings 
I  never  (save  for  a  moment  in  the  Hugo  period, 
and  when  under  the  influence  of  a  charm)  for- 
feited my  will  or  my  judgment,  never  pawned  my 
212 


Sainte-Beuve 

belief.  Oil  the  other  hand,  I  understood  so  well 
both  the  world  of  books  and  that  of  men  that 
I  gave  dubious  encouragement  to  those  ardent 
spirits  who  wished  to  convert  me  to  their  con- 
victions, and  indeed  claimed  me  as  one  of  them- 
selves. But  it  was  all  curiosity  on  my  part,  a 
desire  to  see  everything,  to  examine  closely,  to 
analyse,  along  with  the  keen  pleasure  I  felt  in 
discovering  the  relative  truth  of  each  new  idea 
and  each  system,  which  allured  me  to  my  long 
series  of  experiments,  to  me  nothing  else  than  a 
prolonged  course  of  moral  physiology." 

The  short  space  at  my  command  prevents 
my  enlarging  upon  the  hint  conveyed  in  the 
last  phrase,  except  to  say  that  it  is  directly 
indicative  to  Sainte-Beuve's  fundamental 
critical  principle.  To  him  criticism  was 
literary  physiology.  With  him  a  series  of 
critiques  meant  a  series  of  studies  of — (i)  a 
writer  as  one  of  a  group,  as  the  product 
of  the  shaping  spirit  of  the  time  ;  (2)  a 
writer  as  an  individual,  with  all  his  inherited 
and  acquired  idiosyncrasies  ;  (3)  a  writer  as 
seen  in  his  writings,  viewed  in  the  light  of 
all  ascertainable  personalia  ;  (4)  the  writings 
themselves,  intrinsically  and  comparatively 
estimated.  But,  primarily,  his  essays  were 
as  much  studies  of  character,  of  moral 
physiology,  as  of  literary  values. 

After  his  withdrawal  from  the  too  sectarian 
213 


Sainte-Beuve 

Globe,  Sainte-Beuve  joined  the  staff  of  the 
National.  With  the  ultra -Republican  prin- 
ciples of  that  paper  he  had  but  a  lukewarm 
sympathy,  but  his  friend  Armand  Carrel, 
the  editor,  assured  him  that  nothing  would 
be  expected  from  him  save  purely  literary 
contributions.  For  about  three  years 
(1831-4)  he  remained  on  the  staff  of  the 
National,  and  it  was  in  the  last  year  of  the 
connection  that  he  published  his  one  novel, 
Volupte.  The  book  had  a  gratifying  reception 
so  far  as  wide  notice  was  concerned  ;  but 
it  was  generally  adjudged  to  be  unwhole- 
some in  tone  and  somewhat  too  self-con- 
scious in  style — though  so  beautiful  a  nature 
and  so  refined  a  critic  as  Eugenie  de  Guerin 
affirmed  it  to  be  a  notable  and  even  a  noble 
book.  That  the  prejudice  against  the  author 
on  account  of  it  must  have  been  strong  is 
evident  from  the  fact  that  when  it  was  sug- 
gested to  Guizot,  then  Minister  of  Public 
Instruction,  that  he  should  confer  upon 
Sainte-Beuve  a  professional  post  at  the 
Normal  School,  just  vacant  through  the 
resignation  of  Ampere,  he  refused  to  appoint 
a  man,  howsoever  brilliantly  qualified,  who 
had  written  such  books  as  Joseph  Delorme 
and  Volupte.  Guizot  was  conscientiously 
scrupulous  in  this  matter ;  and  to  show 
214 


Sainte-Beuve 

that  he  bore  no  personal  ill-feeling,  he 
appointed  Sainte-Beuve  to  the  secretary- 
ship of  an  historical  Commission,  a  post 
which  the  equally  conscientious  critic  re- 
signed in  less  than  a  year  on  the  ground 
that  it  was  becoming  or  had  become  a  mere 
sinecure.  Another  instance  of  his  conscien- 
tiousness is  his  having  declined,  about  the 
same  date,  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour — a  distinction  he  would  have  been 
proud  to  accept  had  he  felt  assured  that  it 
was  offered  in  recognition  of  his  literary 
merits,  but  upon  which  he  looked  suspi- 
ciously because  it  came  when  the  Ministry 
of  M.  Mole  and  M.  Salvandy,  both  personal 
friends  of  his,  was  in  power.  Three  years 
after  the  publication  of  his  novel,  he  issued 
the  last  of  his  purely  imaginative  produc- 
tions, the  Pensees  d'Aout.  In  the  same  year 
(1837)  he  went  to  Switzerland,  and  having 
been  invited  by  the  Academy  of  Lausanne  to 
deliver  a  course  of  lectures,  he  settled  for  a 
time  in  the  pleasant  Swiss  town.  There  he 
delivered  in  all  eighty -one  lectures,  the 
foundation  of  his  famous  and  voluminous 
work  on  Port  Royal.  The  history  of  the 
religious  movement  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury known  as  Jansenism,  which  occupied 
him  intermittently  for  twenty  years,  is  a 
215 


Sainte-Beuve 

monument  of  labour,  research,  and  scrupu- 
lous historic  fairness,  and,  though  the 
least  read,  is  one  of  his  greatest  achieve- 
ments. 

Both  before  and  during  his  Swiss  sojourn, 
and  for  about  ten  years  thereafter,  Sainte- 
Beuve  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the 
most  famous  magazine  in  Europe,  the 
Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  which  had  been 
founded  in  1831,  heir  to  the  defunct  Revue 
de  Paris.  The  first  number  contains  an 
article  by  him  upon  his  friend  George 
Farcy,  a  victim  of  the  July  Revolution  ;  and 
thereafter  appeared  that  long  and  delight- 
ful series  of  Portraits  Litteraires,  studies  of 
contemporary  as  well  as  of  deceased  writers, 
which  not  only  gave  him  a  European  repu- 
tation as  a  leading  critic,  but  ultimately 
won  him  his  election  to  the  French  Academy. 
This  signal  good-fortune  happened  in  1845, 
on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  Casimir 
Delavigne ;  and  the  irony  of  circumstances 
was  obvious  to  many  in  the  fact  that  the 
eulogium  on  the  new  "  immortal "  had 
to  be  pronounced  by  the  reluctant  Victor 
Hugo,  his  immediate  predecessor.  It  was 
a  memorable  date,  that  I7th  of  February  ; 
and  if  among  the  many  "  immortals " 
who  have  been  raised  to  glory  by  the 
216 


Sainte-Beuve 

Academy  there  are  relatively  few  whose 
fame  will  be  imperishable,  there  are  not 
many  with  juster  claims  to  remembrance, 
though  in  widely  different  degrees,  than 
the  two  authors  who  were  then  elected  to 
the  coveted  honour,  Prosper  Merimee  and 
Sainte-Beuve. 

His  periodical  articles  and  his  books 
(including  five  volumes  of  essays  which  he 
had  contributed  to  the  Revue  de  Paris  and 
the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes)  brought  him 
in  a  very  moderate  income  ;  and  it  was  not 
till  1840  that  his  means  were  materially 
improved.  In  that  year  he  was  appointed 
one  of  the  keepers  of  the  Mazarin  Library. 
The  appointment  meant  not  only  an  increase 
of  income,  but  a  change  of  residence,  for  it 
comprised  a  suite  of  residential  apartments 
at  the  Institute.  This  pleasant  state  of 
affairs  came  to  an  end  after  the  Revolution 
in  1848.  A  ridiculous  charge  of  corruption 
was  brought  up  against  him  by  envious 
and  inimical  journalists  and  political  adver- 
saries ;  the  ultra-Republicans  accused  him 
of  having  accepted  bribes,  hush-money, 
from  the  late  Government.  In  vain  Sainte- 
Beuve  protested,  and  vainly  he  demanded  a 
searching  inquiry.  The  hint  was  taken  up  ; 
everywhere  he  was  abused,  condemned, 
217 


Sainte-Beuve 

scathingly  ridiculed.  Even  when,  at  last, 
the  truth  was  revealed  and  the  greedy 
public  learned  that  the  amount  of  Sainte- 
Beuve's  indebtedness  was  £4,  and  that 
that  sum  had  been  expended  upon  the 
alteration  of  a  smoking  chimney  in  his 
department  of  the  Library,  and  the  charge 
inadvertently  entered  in  the  official  books 
simply  under  the  heading  "  Ste.  Beuve," 
— even  then  there  were  many  ungenerous 
souls  who  kept  up  the  parrot  cry  of  con- 
tumely. It  somewhat  unfortunately  hap- 
pened that  about  this  time  Sainte-Beuve 
left  Paris,  and  of  course  there  was  at  once 
a  shout  of  triumph  from  his  enemies.  The 
real  reasons  for  his  departure  were  primarily 
financial,  though  no  doubt  he  was  not  at 
all  sorry  to  leave  a  city  which  had  for  the 
time  being  become  so  disagreeable  to  him 
— moreover,  his  distaste  for  the  political 
issues  then  in  full  development  was  very 
strong.  But  after  his  resignation  of  his  post  at 
the  Mazarin  Library,  which  he  had  tendered 
in  the  heat  of  his  indignation  during  the 
bribery  controversy,  he  found  that  he  would 
have  to  do  something  at  once  for  a  living. 
The  political  turmoil  of  1848  was  unfavour- 
able for  the  pursuit  of  pure  literature  ;  and, 
despite  his  high  reputation,  the  editors 
218 


Sainte-Beuve 

whom  he  knew  could  not  promise  him 
a  sufficiency  of  remunerative  work  until 
times  changed  for  the  better.  Accordingly, 
he  very  willingly  accepted  the  Professorship 
of  French  Literature  at  the  University  of 
Liege,  offered  to  him  by  M.  Rogier,  the 
Belgian  Minister  of  the  Interior.  Liege  he 
found  monotonous  and  provincial,  but  he 
stayed  there  for  some  time,  and  attracted 
more  than  local,  more  even  than  national 
attention  by  his  preliminary  course  of 
lectures  on  the  chronological  history  of 
French  literature.  There,  also,  he  delivered 
the  famous  series  on  Chateaubriand  and  his 
contemporaries,  which  amply  demonstrated 
his  independence  as  a  critic,  though  many  of 
his  judgments  and  reservations  brought  a 
veritable  storm  of  reproaches  and  angry 
recriminations  about  his  ears.  For  a  long 
time  he  was  called  an  ingrate,  a  hypocrite, 
a  resentful  critic  inspired  by  pique  ;  but 
ultimately  it  was  acknowledged  that  he 
had  written  the  ablest  and  justest  critique 
of  the  celebrated  egotist  and  poseur.  The 
fundamental  reason  of  the  attacks  upon 
Sainte-Beuve  was  on  account  of  his  so- 
called  inconsistency.  True,  among  his  early 
Literary  Portraits  was  a  flattering  essay  on 
Chateaubriand,  but  he  was  then  under  the 
219 


Sainte-Beuve 

magic  charm  of  Madame  Recamier,  at  whose 
house,  Abbaye-aux-Bois,  he  heard  read 
aloud  in  solemn  state  numerous  extracts 
from  the  famous  writer's  unpublished 
Memoirs.  Moreover,  Chateaubriand  had 
inspired  him  with  a  temporary  enthusiasm. 
When,  with  fuller  knowledge  of  the  man  and 
his  writings  and  with  the  Correspondence 
to  boot,  he  found  that  he  had  been  mistaken, 
he  said  so. 

Chateaubriand  and  his  Literary  Group 
under  the  Empire  is  the  work  which  marks 
the  turning-point  in  Sainte-Beuve's  genius. 
Thenceforth  he  was,  in  truth,  the  foremost 
critic  of  his  time. 

Late  in  1849  Sainte-Beuve,  much  to  the 
chagrin  of  his  Belgian  friends  and  admirers, 
left  Liege  and  returned  to  Paris.  He  was 
still  hesitating  how  best  to  employ  his  pen 
when  he  received  a  flattering,  but  to  him 
somewhat  startling,  offer  from  his  friend 
Dr.  de  Veron,  editor  of  Le  Constitutionnel. 
This  was  to  the  effect  that  he  should  write  a 
literary  article  for  that  paper  every  week. 
The  reason  of  his  perturbation  was  that 
hitherto  he  had  always  composed  in  leisurely 
fashion,  and  for  papers  or  magazines  whose 
readers  were  cultivated  people,  much  more 
interested  in  literature  than  in  politics  and 
220 


Sainte-Beuve 

local  news.  Fortunately,  M.  de  Veron  over- 
ruled his  scruples,  and  so  there  began  that 
delightful  and  now  famous  series  of  literary 
critiques  which  the  writer  himself  entitled 
Causeries  du  Lundi.  He  called  them 
"  Monday  Chats  "  because  each  appeared  on 
a  Monday.  For  five  days  every  week  he 
"  sported  his  oak,"  and  occupied  himself 
for  twelve  hours  daily  with  the  study  of 
his  subject  and  the  writing  of  his  article  ; 
on  the  sixth  he  finally  revised  it ;  Sunday 
was  his  sole  holiday  from  his  task.  By  next 
morning  he  was  deep  in  the  subject  of  the 
Causerie  for  the  following  week.  It  was  the 
need  to  be  concise  and  simple  that  did 
so  much  good  to  Sainte-Beuve's  style.  As 
two  of  his  most  eminent  friends  said  of 
them,  they  were  all  the  better  insomuch 
as  he  had  not  had  time  to  spoil  them. 
From  the  end  of  1849  to  almost  exactly 
twenty  years  later  he  wrote  weekly,  in 
the  Constitutionnel  or  the  Moniteur,  with  a 
single  considerable  interval,  one  of  those 
brilliant,  scholarly,  fascinating  articles, 
— collectively,  a  mass  of  extraordinarily 
varied  work  now  embodied  in  fifteen  goodly 
volumes. 

When  the  coup  d'itat  occurred,  Sainte- 
Beuve  gave  his  approval  to  the  Empire. 
221 


Sainte-Beuve 

Thereby  he  won  for  himself  no  little  unpopu- 
larity. His  first  materially  disagreeable 
experience  of  this  was  when  he  proceeded 
to  lecture  at  the  College  de  France,  to  the 
Professorship  of  Latin  Poetry  at  which  he 
had  been  appointed.  The  students  would 
have  none  of  him.  He  was  an  Imperialist,  a 
Government  payee,  he  wrote  in  the  official 
organ,  Le  Moniteur.  He  was  finally  hissed 
from  the  lecture-room,  whence  he  retired  in 
high  dudgeon.  Ultimately  the  lecture  he 
had  tried  to  deliver,  and  those  which  were 
to  have  followed,  were  published  in  a  volume 
entitled  A  Study  on  Virgil.  The  single  inter- 
mission to  his  regular  literary  work  already 
alluded  to  was  during  the  four  years  when 
he  held  the  post  of  Maitre  des  Conferences 
at  the  Ecole  Normale,  at  a  salary  of  about 
£240.  When  he  again  took  up  literary 
journalism,  after  his  resignation  of  his 
professional  post,  it  was  once  more  as  a 
contributor  to  the  Constitution-net.  He  now 
made  a  fair  income,  for  his  weekly  contri- 
butions to  that  journal  brought  him  in,  by 
special  arrangement,  an  annual  salary  of 
£624.  The  Causeries  were  now  called 
Nouveaux  Lundis,  "  New  Monday- Chats."  In 
the  main  this  series  (begun  in  1861)  is 
equal  to  the  Causeries  du  Lundi,  though  there 
222 


Sainte-Beuve 

are  signs  ever  and  again  of  lassitude.  This 
might  well  be.  The  work  was  a  steady  and 
serious  strain,  and  the  great  critic's  health 
gradually  became  undermined.  In  1865, 
when  he  was  in  his  sixty-first  year,  he  wrote  : 
"  I  am  of  the  age  at  which  died  Horace, 
Montaigne,  and  Bayle,  my  masters  :  so  I 
am  content  to  die."  It  was  in  this  very  year 
that  good  fortune  came  to  him,  and  greatly 
relieved  the  mental  strain  under  which 
his  strength  was  waning.  He  was  appointed 
to  a  Senatorship  of  the  Second  Empire,  a 
position  which  secured  him  an  annual 
income  of  £1200.  His  Senatorial  career 
was  a  dignified  though  not  a  brilliant  one. 
He  was  ever  on  the  side  of  true  freedom, 
and  was  so  independent  in  his  attitude 
that  he  gave  offence  to  those  of  his  fellow- 
Senators  who  were  Imperialists  and  resented 
his  championship  of  religious  liberty.  This 
muzzled  wrath  broke  into  clamorous  fury 
at  an  incident  concerning  which  an  absurd 
fuss  has  been  made.  Sainte-Beuve  had 
arranged  to  give  a  dinner  to  some  of  his 
friends  on  the  occasion  of  Prince  Napoleon's 
departure  from  Paris,  and,  to  suit  that 
gentleman,  had  appointed  Friday  (which 
chanced  to  be  Good  Friday)  as  the  night. 
The  Prince,  Edmond  About,  Gustave 
223 


Sainte-Beuve 

Flaubert,  Renan,  Robin,  and  Taine  duly 
joined  their  host  and  spent  a  pleasant 
evening.  But  the  jackals  were  on  the  trail. 
A  howl  arose  about  a  conspiracy  to  under- 
mine the  religious  welfare  of  the  nation  ; 
the  diners  were  arraigned  as  impious 
debauchees ;  and  Sainte-Beuve  in  parti- 
cular was  upbraided  for  his  "  scandalous 
orgy." 

One  other  and  much  more  serious  annoy- 
ance troubled  the  latter  years  of  Sainte- 
Beuve.  This  arose  from  his  writing  for 
Le  Temps  (whither  he  had  transferred  his 
Causeries,  on  account  of  a  servile  attempt 
to  muzzle  him  on  the  part  of  the  temeritous 
directorate  of  the  Moniteur) ;  and,  as  Le 
Temps  was  hostile  to  the  Government, 
M.  Rouher  and  his  confreres  in  the  Ministry 
(as  well  as  the  whole  Senate)  thought  it 
shameful  that  the  critic  should  write  for 
that  journal,  and  did  all  in  their  power  to 
force  him  into  conformity  with  their  views. 
But  the  critic  was  firmly  independent,  and 
emerged  triumphantly  from  the  ordeal. 

For  some  years  Sainte-Beuve  had  been  in 
indifferent  health.  At  last  he  became  ill 
indeed,  so  that  he  could  only  stand  or  lie 
when  he  had  writing  to  do,  as  to  sit  was 
impossible.  By  the  late  summer  of  1869 
224 


Sainte-Beuve 

his    case    was    desperate.        Ultimately    a 
perilous    operation    was    made,    but     the 
patient  sank  under  its  effects.     He  died  in 
his  house  in   the   Rue   Mont  Parnasse,  on 
October  13,  at  the  age  of  sixty-four.     Along 
with  the  biographical  fragment   found  on 
his  desk  on  the  morrow  of  his  death,  which 
concluded  with  the  celebrated  words,  "  Voue 
et  adonne  a  mon  metier  de  critique,  j'ai 
tache  d'etre  de  plus  en  plus  un  bon  et,  s'il 
se  peut,  habile  ouvrier  " — "  Devoted  with 
all  my  heart  to  my  profession  as  critic,  I 
have  done  my  utmost  to  be  more  and  more 
a  good  and,  if  possible,  an  able  workman  " 
— along   with   Ma   Biographic   were   found 
written  instructions  as  to  his  funeral.     He 
directed  that  he  should  be  buried  in  the 
Cemetery    of    Mont    Parnasse    beside    his 
mother  ;    that  the  ceremony  should  be  as 
simple  as  practicable,  and  without  religious 
rites  or  even  a  friendly  oration.     All  due 
respect  was  paid  to  his  wishes,   and  yet 
seldom  has  a  funeral  been  attended  with 
greater  honour.     It  was  not  the  Senator  of 
the  Second  Empire  who  was  carried  to  the 
grave,  but  the  greatest  of  French  critics,  a 
writer  of  European  renown.   In  the  immense 
crowd  which  formed  the  voluntary  proces- 
sion —  estimated    at    ten    thousand  —  all 
II  225  p 


Sainte-Beuve 

political  differences  were  forgotten  :  uncom- 
promising Imperialists  and  equally  uncom- 
promising Republicans  walked  in  union  for 
once,  in  company  with  nearly  all  who  were 
distinguished  in  letters,  science,  or  art. 
The  only  words  uttered  above  his  grave 
were  more  eloquent  in  their  poignant 
simplicity  than  the  most  glowing  exordium : 
"  Farewell,  Sainte-Beuve  ;  farewell,  our 
friend." 

II 

Sainte-Beuve's  literary  career  may  be 
studied  in  three  main  phases.  The  novelist 
least  claims  our  attention ;  the  poet 
demands  it ;  while  as  a  critic  he  appears 
as  of  supreme  importance. 

Volupte,  to  some  extent,  but  still  more 
the  Vie,  Poesies,  et  Pensees  de  Joseph 
Delorme,  may  be  taken  as  embodying  some 
of  the  positive  and  many  of  the  spiritual 
experiences  of  Sainte-Beuve's  life.  We  have 
his  own  testimony  to  the  fact  that  Joseph 
Delorme  was  "a  pretty  faithful  representa- 
tion of  himself  morally,  but  not  in  the 
biographical  details."  This  alone  would 
give  a  permanent  interest  to  the  book,  as 
it  is  admittedly  in  some  degree  the  auto- 
psychical  record  of  the  most  complex, 
226 


Sainte-Beuve 

brilliant,  protean  spirit  of  our  time.  No 
one  indeed  has  yet  limned  Sainte-Beuve 
for  us  as  he,  for  instance,  has  revealed  the 
heart,  mind,  and  soul  of  Pascal.  Neither 
D'Haussonville,  his  biographer,  nor  any  of 
his  critics,  French  and  English,  has  done 
more  than  introduce  us  to  the  author  of 
so  many  inimitable  Causeries ;  none  of 
them  has  made  us  intimate  with  Sainte- 
Beuve  himself,  notwithstanding  the  array 
of  authentic  facts  and  suggestive  hints 
which  can  now  be  marshalled.  He  is  easiest 
to  be  discerned  in  his  writings  :  not  in 
this  essay  nor  in  that  series  of  essays,  not 
in  the  grave  pages  of  Port  Royal  nor  in  the 
alluring  byways  of  the  Lundis,  neither  in 
the  sensitive  poet  of  The  Consolations  nor 
in  the  austere  pages  of  Pensees  d'Aout, 
not  in  that  Gallic  Werther,  Amaury,  the 
hero  of  Voluptfr,  not  even  in  Joseph  Delorme; 
but  in  all  collectively.  One  is  always  being 
surprised  in  him.  There  is  one  man  in 
Amaury,  another  in  Joseph  Delorme,  a 
very  different  one  in  Pensees  d'Aout,  a 
still  more  distinct  one  in  the  Nouveaux 
Lundis,  and  in  his  single  short  tale,  the 
charming  Christel,  there  are  hints  of  a  per- 
sonality whose  shadowy  features  rarely,  if 
ever,  haunt  the  corridors  of  the  Causeries. 
227 


Sainte-Beuve 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Sainte-Beuve  became 
more  and  more  reserved  as  he  found  himself 
deceived  by  the  glowing  perspectives  of 
youth.  Often  he  was  consumed  with  a 
nostalgia  for  a  country  whence  he  was  half 
voluntarily,  half  perforce  an  exile,  the 
country  of  the  Poetic  Land  where  once  he 
spent  "  six  fleeting  celestial  months,"  *  as 
a  native  of  which  he  would  fain  be  regarded 
even  in  the  remote  days  when  he  found 
himself  an  alien  among  those  whom  he 
yearned  to  claim  as  brothers.  Thenceforth 
the  man  shrank  more  and  more  behind  the 
writer.  The  real  Sainte-Beuve  was  no  doubt 
less  of  a  recluse  in  the  days  when  he  was 
a  member  of  Le  Cenacle,  when  he  was  one 
of  the  sprightliest  in  the  Hugo  circle,  and 
laughed  with  de  Vigny  and  sighed  with 
Lamartine,  debated  with  Hugo  and  flirted 
with  Adele.  But  even  then  his  nature 
could  not  have  been  transparent  to  all, 
otherwise  Alfred  de  Musset  would  not  have 
drawn  his  picture  of  him  as  sitting  some- 
what apart  in  the  shadow,  rhyming  a  sonnet 
to  a  demoiselle's  cap  or  a  lyric  to  his 
mistress's  eyebrow.  Truly,  as  he  himself 
says,  in  the  preface  to  his  Poesies  Completes, 
almost  all  of  us  have  within  ourselves  a 

*  Causeries  du  Lundi,  tome  xvi. 
228 


Sainte-Beuve 

second  self  ("  nous  avons  presque  tous  en 
nous  un  homme  double  "). 

The  Vie,  Poesies,  et  Pensees  de  Joseph 
Delorme  has  been  put  forward  as  an  effort 
on  the  part  of  Sainte-Beuve  to  introduce 
into  France  a  poetic  literature  as  simple, 
fresh,  and  spontaneous  as  that  of  the 
naturalistic  poets  of  England,  and  of  Cowper 
and  Wordsworth  in  particular.  Readers  of 
that  notable  book  will  find  it  difficult  to 
perceive  any  direct  Wordsworthian  influence, 
though  the  author  makes  clear  his  great 
admiration  for  the  English  poet  and  his 
school.  Joseph  Delorme,  in  fact,  is  cousin- 
german  to  Don  Juan,  closely  akin  to  Chateau- 
briand's Rene,  French  half-brother  to 
Goethe's  Werther.  He  is  the  most  literary 
of  the  family,  but  while  he  is  as  senti- 
mental as  Rene  and  as  melancholy  as 
Werther,  he  has  not  the  frank  debonnaire 
licentiousness  of  Don  Juan.  He  is  morbid 
in  his  thoughts  and  in  his  desires.  The 
fellowship  of  a  Tom  Jones  would  have  done 
him  good ;  the  laughing  Juan,  even,  would 
have  acted  as  a  tonic.  "  The  road  of  excess 
leads  to  the  palace  of  wisdom,"  says  Blake  ; 
but  the  poet -visionary  did  not  mean  the 
kind  of  excess  in  which  the  too  introspective 
Joseph  indulged.  He  said  one  good  thing, 
229 


Sainte-Beuve 

however,  for  which  he  will  be  remembered 
— when  he  spoke  of  his  dread  of  marriage 
because  of  its  restrictions  upon  his  "  rather 
rude  philanthropy  "  (a  euphemism  for  "  free 
morals  "),  and  denned  it  as  une  egoisme  a 
deux  personnes. 

Rousseau  and  Goethe  were  the  literary 
godfathers  of  Joseph  Delorme,  who  was 
born  when  the  author  of  his  being  was  only 
five-and-twenty.  The  nature  of  the  book 
is  indicated  by  a  passage  from  Senancour's 
Obermann,  which  exactly  strikes  the  key- 
note :  "  I  have  seen  him,  I  have  pitied  him  ; 
I  respected  him ;  he  was  unhappy  and 
virtuous.  He  had  no  transcendent  misfor- 
tunes ;  but,  on  entering  life,  he  found 
himself  in  a  mesh  of  distastes  and  satieties 
["  il  s'est  trouve  sur  une  longue  trace  de 
dugouts  et  d'ennuis "] ;  there  he  is  still, 
there  he  has  dwelt,  there  he  has  grown 
old  ere  age  has  come  upon  him,  there  he  has 
literally  buried  himself."  The  Adolphe  of 
Obermann,  indeed,  is  but  a  more  melan- 
choly and  a  more  austere  "  double "  of 
Joseph. 

The  following  lines  are  fairly  representa- 
tive of  the  dominant  sentiment  of  the 
book: 


230 


Sainte-Beuve 


V(EU 

*  *  *  * 

Tout  le  jour  du  loisir  ;  rever  avec  des  larmes  ; 
Vers    midi,    me   coucher   d   I'ombre    des   grands 

charmes  ; 

Voir  la  vigne  couriv  sur  mon  toit  ardoise, 
Et  mon  vallon  riant  sous  le  coteau  boise  ; 

Chaque  soir  m'endormir  en  ma  douce  folie, 
Comme   I'heureux   ruisseau    qui   dans   mon   pre 

s'oublie  ; 

Ne  rien  vouloir  de  plus,  ne  pas  me  souvenir, 
Vivre  d  me  sentir  vivre  !  .  .  .   Et  la  mort  peut 

venir. 

But  a  healthier  note  is  often  struck,  as 
in  the  blithe  strain  wedded  to  a  pathetic 
thought,  "  Ce  ciel  restera  bleu  Quand  nous 
ne  serons  plus  "  ;  often,  too,  one  fresh  and 
haunting,  as  in 

Et  dans  ses  blonds  cheveux,  ses  blanches  mains 
errantes — 

Tels  deux  cygnes  nageant  dans  les  eaux  trans- 
par  entes.  .  .  . 

The  Life,  Poetry,  and  Thoughts  are  worth 
reading  ;  the  book  contains  much  that  is 
interesting,  no  little  that  is  suggestive,  not 
infrequently  thoughts,  lines,  and  passages 
of  genuine  beauty.  But  it  can  enthral  only 
those  who  are  enjoying  the  exquisite  senti- 
mentalism  of  adolescence  ;  ere  long  it  will 
231 


Sainte-Beuve 

interest  only  the  student  of  a  certain  literary 
epoch,  the  epoch  begun  by  Rousseau,  that 
found  its  acme  in  Byron,  that  knew  its 
autumn  in  Werther,  that  had  its  grave  in 
the  Rene  of  Chateaubriand,  its  brief  phan- 
tasmal second  life  in  Joseph  Delorme. 
The  poetry  in  it  is  often  sterile,  and  is 
frequently  forced,  self-conscious,  obtrusively 
sedate  in  imagery,  occasionally  even  is 
markedly  derivative.  We  find  Sainte-Beuve 
the  poet  much  better  worth  listening  to  in 
Les  Consolations.  In  point  of  style  there  is 
not  very  much  difference,  though  a  greater 
dexterity  is  manifest,  a  more  delicate 
metrical  tact,  perhaps  also  a  more  unmis- 
takably natural  note.  But  there  is  no  more 
kinship  between  the  author  of  Les  Conso- 
lations and  Joseph  Delorme  than  between 
Don  Juan  and  Manfred.  The  volume  was 
the  product  of  the  religious  mysticism  which 
underlay  Sainte-Beuve's  mental  robustness 
— a  trait  which  allured  him  often  by  dan- 
gerous pitfalls,  but  also  enabled  him  to 
understand  so  well  the  great  religious 
writers  of  whom  he  still  remains  the  most 
sympathetic  as  well  as  the  most  brilliant 
exponent.  It  seemed  ultra-saintly  to  some 
of  those  who  read  it  on  its  appearance. 
BeYanger  annoyed  the  author  by  some  sly 
232 


Sainte-Beuve 

disparagement  ;  Prosper  Merime'e  cynically 
smiled  at  what  he  took  to  be  a  literary 
ruse ;  Gustave  Planche  and  others  glee- 
fully whetted  their  vivisectionary  knives. 
Yet  it  was  for  the  most  part  well  received 
by  the  critics,  and  no  cruel  witticism  like 
that  of  Guizot  on  its  predecessor  (that 
Joseph  Delorme  was  "  a  Werther  turned 
Jacobin  and  sawbones ")  went  echoing 
through  Paris.  The  public  remained  indif- 
ferent, but  the  poet  was  gratified  when 
Chateaubriand  wrote  him  a  letter  of  praise 
with  a  characteristic  "  Ecoutez  votre  genie, 
Monsieur "  ;  when  Hugo  and  Alfred  de 
Vigny  waxed  enthusiastic  ;  when  Beranger 
sent  an  epistle  of  kindly  criticism  ;  and  when 
Lamartine  unbosomed  himself  as  follows  : 
"  Yesterday,  I  re-read  the  Consolations 
.  .  .  they  are  ravishing.  I  say  it  and  I 
repeat  it  :  it  is  this  that  I  care  for  in  French 
poetry  of  this  order.  What  truth,  what 
soul,  what  grace  and  poetry  !  I  have  wept, 
I  who  never  weep."  (This  must  have  amused 
Sainte-Beuve,  later,  if  not  then.  The  senti- 
mental Lamartine  was  always  weeping 
over  one  thing  or  another,  and  the  "  J'en 
ai  pleure",  moi  qui  oncques  ne  pleure," 
is  as  little  apt  as  though  Mr.  Pickwick 
were  to  say,  "I  have  smiled,  who  never 
233 


Sainte-Beuve 

smile.")  It  was  at  this  time,  the  period 
wherein  The  Consolations  were  produced, 
that  Sainte-Beuve  dreamed  upon  Latmos 
and  believed  that  the  goddess  whom  he 
loved  was  going  to  reward  his  passion. 
The  "  celestial  months  "  passed,  but  they 
were  ever  an  oasis  to  which  he  delighted 
to  return  in  memory.  He  even  wished,  in 
later  years,  that  those  who  desired  to  know 
him  should  seek  and  find  him  a  happy 
Dryad  flitting  through  the  shadowy  vales 
and  sunlit  glades  of  the  woodlands  of  song. 
No  doubt  the  real  Sainte-Beuve  is  as  much 
in  this  book  of  verse  as  in  any  other  of  his 
library  of  volumes,  but  it  is  the  Sainte- 
Beuve  of  a  certain  period,  and  even  then 
only  one  of  two  selves.  The  Consolations 
always  remained  his  favourite  volume.  It 
contains  a  great  deal  of  gracious  and  even 
beautiful  verse,  in  style  often  clear  as  a 
trout-stream,  fresh  and  fragrant  as  a  May- 
meadow,  though  even  here,  as  certainly 
with  his  other  "  poesies,"  one  is  inclined 
to  say  of  him,  in  the  words  of  his  own 
Joseph  Delorme,  that  he  had  not  sufficiently 
"  the  ingenuousness  of  deep  faith,  the 
instinctive  and  spontaneous  cry  of  pas- 
sionate emotion."  Some  of  the  Consolations 
are  extremely  Wordsworthian — how  closely, 
234 


Sainte-Beuve 

indeed,  he  could  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the 
great  English  poet  is  evident  in  the  following 
free  translation  of  that  most  lovely  sonnet 
beginning,  "  It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm 
and  free." 

C'est  un  beau  soir,  un  soir  paisible  et  solennel  ; 
A  la  fin  du  saint  jour,  la  Nature  en  pridre 
Se  tail,  comme  Marie  d  genoux  sur  la  pierre, 
Qui  tremblante  et  muette  ecoutait  Gabriel  : 

La  mer  dort  ;  le  soleil  descend  en  paix  du  del  ; 
Mais  dans  ce  grand  silence,  au-dessus  et  derrie're, 
On  entend  I'hymne  heureux  du  triple  sanctuaire, 
Et  I'orgue  immense  ou  gronde  un  tonnerre  kernel. 

O  blond  jeune  fille,  d  la  tete  baissee, 
Qui  marches  pres  de  moi,  si  ta  sainte  pensee, 
Semble  moins  qui  la  mienne  adorer  ce  moment, 
C'est  qu'au  sein  d' Abraham  vivant  toute  I'annee, 
Ton  dme  est  de  priere,  d  chaque  heure,  baignee  ; 
C'est  que  ton  cceur  recite  un  divin  firmament. 

This,  of  course,  is  but  indifferent  verse 
after  the  superb  original,  but  it  shows 
both  how  Sainte-Beuve  was  inspired  by 
Wordsworth,  and  how  ably  he  too  could 
write,  albeit  as  a  translator,  in  simple  and 
unaffected  strains.  Although  the  second, 
third,  and  fourth  lines  bear  no  resemblance  to 
the  original  and  the  rest  is  only  in  a  lesser 
degree  unliteral,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  the  full  beauty  of  the  original  is  untrans- 
latable, and  that  the  French  poet  strove  to 
235 


Sainte-Beuve 

convey  to  the  French  reader  the  same 
impression  as  an  English  reader  would 
gain  from  the  English  sonnet.  However, 
the  importance  of  this  and  other  experi- 
ments is  not  to  be  overlooked.  Many  of 
the  younger  poets  owe  much,  directly  or 
indirectly,  to  the  lesson  taught  by  Sainte- 
Beuve  in  what  a  hostile  critic  has  called  his 
"  Anglo-French  metrical  essays." 

Yet,  while  it  is  true  that  the  man  is  per- 
haps to  be  seen  most  clearly  in  his  poetry, — 
"it  is  in  following  the  poet  that  we  find 
the  man,"  as  Anatole  France  says, — 
even  here  he  is  an  evasive,  an  uncertain 
personality.  The  strange  mixture  of  a 
sensuousness  that  is  at  times  almost  sensual, 
a  mysticism  which  would  suit  a  religious 
enthusiast,  a  clarity  of  thought  and  an 
exquisite  sense  of  the  beauty  of  precision 
and  artistic  form,  a  frequent  remoteness  of 
shaping  emotion,  coupled  with  keen  per- 
ception of  the  sovereign  value  of  that 
resistless  formative  power  which  makes  the 
creatures  of  the  imagination  more  real  than 
the  actual  beings  about  us  * — all  this,  and 

*  In  his  own  words,  he  sought  to  arrive  "  at 
that   particularity   and  at  that   precision  which 
causes   the   creations   of    our   mind    to    become 
altogether  ours  and  to  be  recognised  as  ours." 
236 


Sainte-Beuve 

his  complex  style  (which  now  is  simple, 
now  is  heated  with  fires  unlit  of  the  sun, 
and  again  is  involved,  obscure  almost, 
wrought  to  an  excessive  finish,  tourmente), 
makes  Sainte-Beuve  the  poet  a  profoundly 
puzzling  as  well  as  interesting  study.  In 
his  last  volume  of  verse,  particularly,  he 
is,  as  one  of  his  critics  has  said,  "tour- 
mente a  Pexces,  souvent  d'une  etrangete 
qui  deconcerte."  But  it  is  quite  wrong  to 
assert,  as  has  been  affirmed  more  than  once, 
that  Sainte-Beuve's  poetic  melancholy,  the 
undertone  of  each  of  his  three  books,  is 
assumed.  One  writer  in  Le  Temps  (or  Le 
Figaro)  recently  found  a  proof  of  this  literary 
insincerity  in  some  remarks  made  by  the 
critic  in  his  old  age,  remarks  treating 
his  former  mysticism  lightly,  with  an 
avowal  that  "  his  odours  of  the  sacristy 
were  really  meant  for  the  ladies."  "I  have 
been  guilty  of  a  little  Christian  mythology 
in  my  time,"  he  admitted,  "  but  it  all 
evaporated  long  ago.  It  was  for  me,  as  the 
swan  to  Leda's  wooer,  merely  a  means  to 
reach  fair  readers  and  to  win  their  tender 
regard."  But  this,  quite  obviously,  is  mere 
badinage.  If  there  be  any  truth  in  it  at  all, 
it  is  one  of  those  remote  filaments  of  fact 
which  go  to  the  weaving  of  the  web  of  truth  ; 
237 


Sainte-Beuve 

nothing  more.  His  melancholy  was  a  genuine 
sentiment,  which  found  expression  diffe- 
rently at  divers  times.  Even  in  his  latest 
essays,  where  his  natural  geniality  is  allowed 
free  play,  it  is  traceable  in  those  occasional 
bitternesses  and  abrupt  dislikes,  those  half- 
weary  and  yet  mordant  "  asides,"  which 
show  that  the  man  was  by  no  means  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  critic.  He  himself,  as  we 
have  seen,  attributed  this  fundamental 
strain  of  sadness  in  his  nature  to  his  mother's 
early  widowhood.  But,  as  M.  France  has 
well  said,  it  was  another  mother,  the  Revo- 
lution, that  inoculated  him  with  the  malady 
of  the  age — a  malady  to  which  M.  Taine, 
the  most  brilliant  of  the  disciples  of  Sainte- 
Beuve,  has  alluded  so  eloquently:  "It  was 
then  that  the  malady  of  the  age  appeared, 
the  spiritual  inquietude  typified  by  Werther 
and  Faust,  almost  identical  with  that  which, 
in  a  somewhat  similar  time,  agitated  men 
at  the  beginning  of  the  century.  I  would 
call  it  the  discontent  with  present  horizons, 
the  vague  desire  after  a  higher  beauty  and  an 
ideal  happiness,  a  pathetically  sad  aspira- 
tion towards  the  infinite.  Man  suffers  in 
doubting  and  yet  he  doubts  :  he  tries  to 
recapture  his  lost  beliefs,  they  are  really  in 
his  hand."  (Hist,  de  la  Lit.  Anglaise, 
238 


Sainte-Beuve 

tome  iii.)  This  melancholy  nature,  induced 
by  the  spirit  of  the  age,  derived  now  from 
this  source  and  now  from  that,  and  occa- 
sionally insincere,  is  most  marked  in  its 
least  genuine  aspects  in  the  Pensees  d'Aout. 
There  is  nothing  in  it  so  fine,  in  the  poetry 
of  melancholy,  as  the  lines  in  The  Consola- 
tions (inscribed  to  Mme.  V.  H.  ;  no  other, 
of  course,  than  the  immaculate  Ad£le  Hugo) 
beginning : 

Plus  fraiche  que  la  vigne  au  bord  d'un  antre  /rat's. 

The  chief  poem  in  the  collection,  entitled 
Monsieur  Jean,  is  an  ill-considered  attempt 
at  a  didactic  novelette  in  verse.  The  author 
did  not  so  regard  it ;  he  believed  that  he 
had  wooed  and  won  Musa  Pedestris,  and  had 
given  his  poetry  the  tone  of  serene  wisdom. 
Jean  is  a  natural  son  of  Jean  Jacques 
Rousseau,  and  is  a  simple,  gentle  creature, 
eager  to  expiate  in  his  remote  village,  by 
piety  and  endless  good  deeds,  what  he  cannot 
but  regard  as  the  disastrous  glory  of  his 
father.  But  the  poet's  failure  is  a  signal 
instance  of  the  folly  of  metrical  didactics. 
Jean  bored  the  reading  public,  who  com- 
bined in  awarding  the  Pensees  d'Aotit  what 
its  author  called  a  really  savage  reception. 
In  this  book,  more  than  anywhere  else 
239 


Sainte-Beuve 

in  his  poetical  writings,  is  true  what  Matthew 
Arnold  said  of  him,  that  he  lacked  some- 
thing of  flame,  of  breath,  of  pinion  :  here, 
more  than  elsewhere,  his  poems  cotoient  la 
prose — coasted  perilously  near  the  land  of 
prose.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  book  was  a 
complete  failure;  it  caused  the  pendulum 
of  his  poetic  repute  to  swing  back,  and  to 
be  caught  up  and  never  let  go  again.  More- 
over, its  reception  stifled  the  poet  in  Sainte- 
Beuve.  It  is  a  poignant  personal  note 
that  underlies  his  famous  remark,  "  Every 
one  contains  a  dead  poet  in  his  soul." 

But,  after  all,  even  the  most  reluctant 
reader  of  Sainte-Beuve  as  a  poet  cannot, 
if  he  be  minded  to  criticism,  afford  to  over- 
look this  important  section  of  the  life-work 
of  the  great  critic.  It  is  necessary,  indeed, 
not  only  to  an  understanding  of  the  man, 
but  of  the  writer.  For  in  these  Poesies 
Completes,  to  quote  the  words  of  a  sympa- 
thetic critic,  "is  revealed  the  most  inquir- 
ing, the  most  sagacious,  the  most  complex 
spirit  "  to  whom  the  age  has  given  birth. 

It  is  not  feasible  here,  in  the  limited 
space  at  my  command,  to  attempt  any 
analysis  of  Volupte,  Sainte-Beuve's  sole 
effort  in  fiction  save  the  short  tale  Christel. 
Some  day  when  a  critical  historian,  curious 
240 


Sainte-Beuve 

as  to  the  mainsprings  of,  let  us  hope,  the 
long  since  cured  maladie  du  siecle,  will 
occupy  himself  with  the  fortunes  of  Werther 
and  Rene,  Adolphe  and  Amiel,  he  will 
not  omit  to  include  in  that  strange  company 
the  amorously  sentimental  and  sentimentally 
melancholic  Amaury.  For  myself  I  admit  I 
find  that  youth  quite  as  entertaining  as 
either  of  the  more  famous  offspring  of  Goethe 
or  Chateaubriand. 

As  a  historian  Sainte-Beuve  showed  re- 
markable aptitude,  but  it  is  as  an  historian 
of  mental  phases,  episodes  and  general 
events,  rather  than  of  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
outer  weal,  the  conflict  of  kingdoms  and  the 
fortunes  of  internecine  warfare,  the  rise  of 
this  house  or  that  dynasty,  the  ruin  of  cities 
and  the  growth  of  States.  He  could  have 
been  neither  a  Gibbon  nor  a  Niebuhr, 
neither  a  Guizot  nor  a  Mommsen,  not  even 
a  Macaulay  or  an  Ampere  ;  but  he  is  in 
the  domain  of  historical  literature  what  the 
author  of  the  History  of  the  Rise  of  Morals 
in  Europe  and  the  History  of  Rationalism 
is  in  the  sphere  of  ethical  research,  though, 
of  course,  there  is  a  radical  distinction 
between  the  method  of  Mr.  Lecky  and  that 
of  the  author  of  Port  Royal.  To  the  accom- 
plishment of  this  immense  undertaking 

li  241  Q 


Sainte-Beuve 

Sainte-Beuve  brought  his  inexhaustible 
patience,  his  almost  unerring  faculty  of 
wise  discrimination,  his  precise  and  scientific 
method  of  analysis  and  exposition,  and  a 
style  which  gave  wings  to  words  yoked  to 
dry  and  apparently  outworn  subjects.  It 
may  safely  be  said  that  no  student  of  Pascal 
or  of  the  religious  movement  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  will  ever  be  able  to  dispense 
with  Sainte-Beuve's  masterly  work. 

As  the  literary  critic,  as  the  first  who 
brought  into  the  analysis  and  exposition 
of  literature  the  methods  of  exact  science, 
Sainte-Beuve  must  always  have  a  high  place 
in  the  literary  history  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Ultimately,  it  may  be  that  his 
chief  glory  will  lie  in  his  having  been  the 
pioneer  of  a  new  literary  art,  in  his  having 
been  the  torch-bearer  who  gave  light  and 
direction  to  many,  not  heeding  much  whether 
his  torch,  its  service  done,  should  there- 
after be  seldom  seen  and  rarely  sought.  His 
example  has  been  of  almost  inestimable 
value,  and  not  among  his  countrymen 
only.  All  of  the  foremost  living  critics  of 
France,  from  the  eldest  and  most  brilliant, 
Henri  Taine,  to  Paul  Bourget,  the  late 
Emile  Hennequin,  Ernest  Tissot,  and  Charles 
Morice,  have  learned  much  from  him — some 
242 


Sainte-Beuve 

a     lifelong    lesson,    others    guiding     hints 
only. 

In  the  Notes  et  Remarques  at  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  volume  of  the  Causeries  du 
Lundi  occurs  the  following :  "I  have 
given  no  one  the  right  to  say — He  belongs 
to  us  [//  est  des  notres]."  It  is  this  absolute 
independence,  this  many-sidedness  of  Sainte- 
Beuve,  which  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  his 
success.  He  can  be  an  intellectual  comrade 
of  every  poet,  from  the  austere  Dante  to 
the  gay  Villon  ;  of  every  wit  and  satirist, 
from  Rabelais  to  Rivarol ;  of  every  builder 
up  of  ethical  systems  and  every  iconoclast 
of  creeds,  of  the  ancient  Latins  and  Greeks 
as  well  as  of  the  modern  Germans  and 
English ;  and,  moreover,  at  all  times  a 
comrade  with  an  eye  to  the  exact  value  of 
and  pleasure  derivable  from  his  companion 
of  the  hour.  Here,  it  seems  to  me,  is  his 
strength  and  his  weakness.  He  can  be 
bon  camarade  with  every  one,  but  he  is 
never  able  to  forget  that  he  is  the  observer 
of  the  thoughts,  speech,  action,  and  prin- 
ciples of  those  with  whom  he  fares.  He 
has  charming  ruses  for  evading  detection. 
He  will  laugh  gaily,  he  will  smile,  he  will 
allude  to  this  or  that  scarcely  pertinent 
matter,  he  will  altogether  diverge  from  his 
243 


Sainte-Beuve 

subject,  he  will  reintroduce  it  casually 
and  possibly  dismiss  it  lightly,  yet  he  will 
have  had  but  one  aim  in  view  from  the 
outset :  to  analyse  and  estimate  the  writings 
of  his  author ;  to  discover  the  shaping  cir- 
cumstances of  the  latter  as  an  individual ;  to 
strip  him  of  what  is  extraneous  and  reveal 
him  as  he  really  is ;  in  a  word — to  portray 
him  in  one  composite  photograph  and  give 
us  a  likeness  of  the  man  as  well  as  of  the 
author  which  shall  be  none  the  less  true 
because  it  resolves  into  definite  features  the 
fleeting  and  indeterminate  traits  which  we 
perceive,  now  in  the  one,  now  in  the  other. 
He  is  no  believer  in  the  doctrine  of  the 
isolation  of  an  author  from  his  writings  ; 
it  seems  as  absurd  to  him  as  it  would  be  to 
assert  that  no  notice  of  the  prism  may  be 
taken  in  a  study  of  the  chemic  action  of 
light  passing  therethrough.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  question  arises  if  Sainte- 
Beuve  is  not  apt  to  be  misled  by  his  own 
theory,  having  to  make  positive  affirmations 
based  on  facts  necessarily  in  some  degree 
supposititious.  Herein  is  the  hidden  reef  of 
literary  psychology,  and  even  so  great  a 
critic  as  Taine  is  occasionally  missuaded  by 
semblances  which  he  takes  for  actualities. 
The  elder  writer  is  content  to  be  a  careful 
244 


Sainte-Beuve 

scientific  observer  and  delights  in  artistic 
demonstration  of  his  newly  perceived  and 
otherwise  accumulated  facts :  Taine,  Paul 
Bourget,  and  the  later  literary  analysts 
go  further,  and  wish  to  reach  down  through 
facts  to  their  origins  and  to  the  primary 
impulsion  again  of  the  influences  which 
moulded  those  origins — and,  finally,  by 
cumulative  verification  to  transform  hypo- 
thesis into  demonstrable  truth.  But,  funda- 
mentally, both  means  are  identical ;  the 
basis  of  each  is  the  adoption,  for  literary 
research,  of  the  method  of  exact  science. 
Sainte-Beuve  hated  fixed  judgments  ;  he 
had  none  of  the  arrogances  of  his  critical 
kindred.  He  neither  said  himself,  nor  cared 
to  hear  others  saying,  that  a  book  was  defi- 
nitely good  or  definitely  bad  ;  he  loved  the 
nuances,  the  delicacies  and  subtleties  of 
criticism,  as  much  as  he  disliked  rigid 
formulas.  Yet  his  studies  in  literary 
psychology,  as  Paul  Bourget  would  call 
them,  are  not  only  acute,  but  are  generally 
profoundly  conclusive.  It  is  his  suave  and 
winsome  manner  that  makes  many  think  he  is 
too  complaisant  to  be  critical,  though  he  has 
himself  said  that  in  his  Portraits  the  praise 
is  conspicuous  and  the  criticism  inobtrusive 
— "  dans  mes  Portraits,  le  plus  sou  vent  la 
245 


Sainte-Beuve 

louange  est  exterieure,  et  la  critique  intes- 
tine." The  man  himself  continually  evades 
us,  but  the  critic  is  always  trustworthy. 
He  has,  to  a  phenomenal  degree,  the  delicate 
flair  which  detects  the  remotest  perfume 
amid  a  confusion  of  fragrances  ;  he  knows 
how  to  isolate  it,  how  to  detach  it,  how  to 
delight  us  with  it — and  then,  when  we  are 
just  upon  the  verge  of  deeper  enjoyment, 
he  proves  that  the  scent  is  not  so  exquisite 
in  itself  after  all,  but  owes  much  to  the 
blending  of  the  exhalations  of  neighbouring 
flowers  and  blossoms  and  herbs.  While  we 
are  still  wavering  between  conviction  and 
disenchantment,  he  explains  that  it  has 
this  peculiarity  or  that  because  of  the  soil 
whence  it  derives  its  nurture,  a  thin  rocky 
earth  or  loam  of  the  valley.  Then,  finally, 
lest  we  should  turn  aside  disappointedly, 
he  tells  us  something  about  it  which  we  had 
but  half  noticed,  praises  fragrance  and  bloom 
again,  and  with  a  charming  smile  gives  us 
the  flower  to  take  with  us,  perchance  to 
press  and  put  away,  like  sweet -la  vender  or 
wild-thyme,  a  hostage  against  oblivion  of 
a  certain  hour,  a  certain  moment  of  fresh 
experience. 

What  range  for  one  man  to  cover  !    Let 
one  but  glance  at  the  contents  of  all  these 
246 


Sainte-Beuve 

volumes.  Besides  this  novel,  these  three 
collections  of  poems,  here  are  seven  volumes 
of  Port  Royal  (containing  a  multitude  of 
vignettes  and  sketches  as  well  as  carefully 
drawn  pictures  and  portraits),  fifteen  volumes 
of  the  Causeries  du  Lundi,  volumes  upon 
volumes  of  Nouveaux  Lundis,  Portraits 
Litteraires,  Portraits  des  Contemporains,  Der- 
niers  Portraits,  and  Portraits  des  Femmes, 
a  Tableau  Historique  et  Critique  de  la 
Poesie  Fran$aise  et  du  Theatre  Franfais  au 
xvie  Siecle,  and  miscellaneous  essays  and 
studies.  Then  the  richly  suggestive  Notes, 
and  Thoughts,  and  Remarks  must  be  added, 
and  the  recent  volume  edited  by  M.  Jules 
Troubat,  Sainte-Beuve's  latest  secretary  and 
"  good  friend  with  qualifications,"  and  an 
Introduction  here  and  an  Etude  there. 

I  should  like  to  conclude  with  a  selection 
from  the  several  hundred  detached  Pensees 
of  Sainte-Beuve,  which  are  often  so  beauti- 
ful, so  clever,  or  so  witty,  and  are  always  so 
suggestive ;  but  that  is  impracticable  now. 
Those  who  would  become  more  intimate 
with  the  man  as  well  as  with  the  writer 
should  turn,  in  particular,  to  the  two 
hundred  and  more  Notes  et  Pensees  in  the 
eleventh  volume  of  the  Causeries  du  Lundi, 
and  to  the  richly  suggestive  posthumous 
247 


Sainte-Beuve 

collection,  Les  Cahiers  de  Sainte-Beuve. 
For  "  finis,"  however,  I  may  select  one, 
peculiarly  apt  to  the  great  critic  himself, 
as  well  as  to  the  epoch.  It  is  cxxvii.  of 
the  Notes  et  Pensees :  "  Great  things  may  be 
accomplished  in  our  days,  great  discoveries 
for  example,  great  enterprises;  but  these 
do  not  give  greatness  to  our  epoch.  Greatness 
is  shown  especially  in  its  point  of  departure, 
in  its  flexibility,  in  its  thought." 

1890 


248 


THE  MODERN  TROUBADOURS 

(1900) 

h  '••   •/ 

IF  there  is  one  region  of  Europe  of  which  it 
can  be  said  that  it  has  been  continually 
the  home  of  poetry,  that  region  is  "  the 
sunny  corner  of  France,"  as  Paul  Arene 
calls  Provence,  "  the  Empire  of  the  Sun," 
as  Mistral  alludes  to  his  native  land,  "  the 
Midi,"  as  the  old  Roman  province  is  uni- 
versally designated.  Every  literature  in 
Europe  has  drawn  light  and  warmth  from 
this  source  ;  and  to-day  Proven9al  literature 
is  still  the  only  national  literature  whose 
salient  characteristics  are  youth,  hope,  and 
joy.  In  one  of  the  admirable  letters  of 

La  Comtesse  Sophie  de  L (the  "Mignon  " 

of  Aubanel's  charming  posthumous  volume 
of  correspondence)  occurs  the  phrase,  "  La 
Provence,  entre  toutes  les  nations,  est  restee 
jeune  "  ;  and  to  the  student  of  Proven9al 
history,  of  Provensal  life  and  literature,  the 
phrase  carries  conviction.  "In  the  days  of 
the  Troubadours,  Provence  was  not  only 
249 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

the  one  country  where  poetry  was  nourished 
as  a  beautiful  art,  where  it  was  the  actual 
breath  of  the  finer  spirits  of  the  time  ;  it 
was  also  the  one  inheritor  of  the  gladness 
that  had  been  the  gladness  of  Greece,  the 
gladness  that  died  out  of  Europe  with 
Julian  the  Apostate,  and  only  once  or 
twice  during  many  generations  revealed 
itself  as  a  living  force,  now  in  the  Italy  of 
the  Renaissance,  now  in  the  England  of 
Shakespeare  and  Raleigh.  To-day,  in  the 
work  of  every  Provengal  poet  of  note — 
as  Mistral  says  of  a  book  by  one  of  his 
friends,  the  Aixois  poet,  Baptiste  Gaut — 
"un  petit  vent  de  Grece  agite  son  habit." 
The  song  of  the  delight  of  life  was  the  song 
of  every  trouvere  from  the  banks  of  the 
rushing  Arc,  the  brown  Durance,  or  the 
azure  Rhone,  to  the  Loire,  the  willowed 
Marne,  and  the  sea-wandering  Seine.  To- 
day the  rural  poets  by  the  Loire  are  silent, 
and  those  of  an  urban  Seine  sing  of  despair 
and  sorrow,  of  loss  and  regret  and  longing ; 
pessimistic  and  disillusioned,  they  have 
renamed  love,  desire ;  hate,  bitterness ; 
beauty,  illusion ;  nobility,  vanity ;  glad- 
ness, regret ;  hope,  despair.  But  in  the 
South,  in  that 'Midi  so  passionately  loved 
and  so  passionately  sung,  life  is  more  than 
250 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

ever  life,  love  more  than  ever  love,  beauty 
and  joy  and  gladness  more  than  ever 
gladness  and  joy  and  beauty.  It  is  almost 
impossible  not  to  find  this  note  of  joy  in 
the  writings  of  every  Provengal  poet — and 
now,  Provencals  and  Languedociens,  from 
Toulouse  to  Antibes,  from  Briangon  to 
Barcelona,  and  above  all  in  Provence  proper, 
the  singers  are  legion.  Even  with  the 
saddest — and  there  is  no  Provengal  poet 
whose  song  is  all  of  sadness — there  is  a  joy 
of  life  which  is  as  an  inextinguishable  fount. 
Perhaps  the  most  sombre,  as  well  as 
certainly  one  of  the  most  powerful  and 
intense,  of  the  Provengal  poets  is  the 
Protestant  Languedocien,  Auguste  Foures ; 
but  no  reader  of  Cants  del  Soulelh,  La  Muso 
Sylvestro,  Lou  Troumbeto,  to  mention  his 
three  most  characteristic  works,  can  fail 
to  note  therein  the  deep  delight  in  life, 
as  well  as  the  ardent  heart  and  impassioned 
mind  of  a  poet  the  secret  of  whose  genius 
was  a  continual  grave  ecstasy.  Perhaps 
the  most  "  divinely  melancholic  "  is  Alphonse 
Tavan,  yet  the  melancholy  and  sadness  of 
some  of  the  poems  in  his  winsome  Amour  e 
Plour  (Love  and  Tears]  must  seem  to  the 
Northern  reader  but  April  weather,  brief 
sallies  of  rainbow-lit  rain,  soft  showers 
251 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

among  lilacs  at  dawn  or  sundown.  There 
is,  in  the  Provencal  literature  of  to-day, 
nothing  of  the  poignant  bitterness  of  Heine 
or  of  the  weariness  of  De  Musset,  nothing 
in  the  vaguest  degree  resembling  either  the 
evil  beauty  of  the  Fleurs  du  Mai  or  the 
morose  despair  of  The  City  of  Dreadful 
Night,  nothing  of  the  lamentation  of  the 
Irish  or  Scottish  Gael  over  "  that  which 
has  gone  away  upon  the  wind."  Every- 
where is  the  note  of  rejoicing  in  life.  Even 
in  the  work  of  the  delicate  and  ill-fated 
Jules  Boissiere,  whose  recent  tragic  end  in 
the  French  Orient  closed  a  career  of  rare 
promise,  we  find  this  trait  as  marked  as 
in  the  lyric  serenity  of  Mistral  or  the  joyous 
abandon  and  sunny  paganism  of  Aubanel. 
In  his  beautiful  ode  Of  the  Sky,  of  the  Waters, 
of  the  Earth  (Dou  Ceu,  de  VAigo  e  de  la  Terro), 
in  Li  Gabian,  he  cries  :  "  Adieu  1'enuei  e 
1'escor  !  "  ("  Farewell,  weariness  and  dis- 
taste ! ")  Everywhere 

L'amour  vanego  a  I'asard 

Per  gravo,  colo,  e  carriero  ; 

Dins  li  poutoun  dou  vent  Larg, 

Te  beve  coume  un  neitar, 

Festo  dou  Ceu,  de  la  Mar, 
De  la  Terro  entiero* 

*  ' '  Love  wanders  at  hazard  through  the  streets, 
by  the  hillsides,  in  the  valleys.     In  the  kisses  of 
252 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

For  every  other  Provengal  poet,  as  for  him, 
is  the  aptness  of  the  motto,  "  Noste  Sant 
Grasall,  lou  Beu,"  "  Our  Sanct-Graal,  the 
Beautiful."  There  is  not  a  singer  among 
them  who  has  not  two  mistresses,  two 
Lauras  of  inspiration — the  Joy  of  Life,  and 
Provence.  "  O  ma  Prouvengo,"  cries  one, 
but  it  is  the  voice  of  all,  "  O  ma  Prouvengo 
ardento  e  siavo " — though  perhaps  few 
likewise  seriously  claim  that  Provengal  is 
"  the  language  of  the  kings  of  old,  of  the 
peasants,  and  of  God." 

If  one  wish  to  understand  Provence,  or 
to  approach  its  contemporary  literature, 
with  adequate  knowledge  of  that  wonder- 
ful Provence  of  old  which  for  generations 
enthralled  and  inspired  Europe  with  its 
romance,  its  poetry,  its  codes  of  love  and 
chivalry,  with  all  its  lovely  and  dignified 
traditions,  one's  best  preparation,  by  a 
strange  contrast,  is  through  the  extensive 
and  erudite  labour  of  an  American  enthu- 
siast. In  his  two  beautiful  volumes,  The 
Troubadours  at  Home,  Mr.  Justin  H.  Smith 
has  demonstrated  his  vast  subject-matter 
with  a  fullness,  a  thoroughness,  and  a 

the  wave-born  wind  I  drink  to  thee  as  a  nectar, 
Festival  of  the  Sky,  the  Sea,  and  the  whole 
Earth." 

253 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

vivifying  sympathy  which  render  his  labour 
of  love  a  truly  valuable  production. 

It  is  with  some  self-denial  that  one  refrains 
from  a  period — a  period  of  two  hundred 
years,  from  its  dawn  with  Duke  Guihem  of 
Aquitaine,  Marcabru,  and  the  famous  Rudel, 
to  its  sunset  with  Guiraut  Riquier  at  the 
close  of  the  thirteenth  century — so  fasci- 
nating in  every  way,  but  above  all  to  the 
student  of  the  origins  of  modern  literatures. 
Again,  and  particularly  in  connection  with 
the  hidden  growth  and  immediate  origins 
of  modern  Proven£al  literature,  one  would 
gladly  dwell  on  the  fascinating  and  complex 
problem  of  the  making  of  Provencal  in  all 
its  many  dialects,  and  on  the  still  more 
complex  ethnological  problem  of  the  funda- 
mental constituents  of  the  Provensal  nature, 
mind,  and  genius.  As  Mistral  says  in  the 
preface  to  his  great  philological  work, 
Lou  Tresor  dou  Felibrige,  "  Quau  t6n  la 
lengo  ten  la  clau,"  "Who  holds  the  lan- 
guage holds  the  key."  But  that  is  apart 
from  the  subject-matter  of  the  present 
article,  and  indeed  would  not  be  alluded  to 
but  for  the  obvious,  if  not  direct  or  unbroken, 
connection  between  the  Provence  of  old  and 
the  Provence  of  to-day. 

Gaston    Paris    and    other   scholars   have 

254 


written  much  on  the  ethnological  founda- 
tions of  the.Provensal  peoples;  there  is  a 
whole  library  of  books  on  Langue  d'Oc  and 
Langue  cTOil ;  and  there  is  no  lack  of 
learned  treatises,  scholarly  dissertations, 
and  more  or  less  valuable  and  voluminous 
studies,  summaries,  and  inquiries  on  every- 
thing to  do  with  Provence  (the  wider  Pro- 
vence of  old  as  well  as  the  Provence  of 
to-day).  Perhaps  much  learning  can  be 
conveyed  in  a  few  words.  Gaston  Paris 
himself  has  summed  up  the  career  of  the 
old  Provensal  literature  by  saying  that 
from  its  original  seat  in  or  near  Limousin 
it  spread  over  Poitou  and  Languedoc, 
aroused  in  France  an  imitative  poetry, 
and  inspired  the  Minnesingers  of  Germany, 
created  the  poetry  of  Spain  and  Portugal, 
and  in  Italy  fertilised  the  soil  that  was  to 
produce  a  Dante  and  a  Petrarch.  Through 
Dante  and  Petrarch,  all  modern  lyric  poetry 
may  reasonably  be  said  to  descend  from  the 
Troubadours  of  Provence.  A  scrupulous  and 
scholarly  English  critic  has  demonstrated 
that  our  own  literature  was  almost  constantly 
under  Italian  (and,  therefore,  directly  or 
indirectly,  Proven9al)  influence  for  three 
hundred  years.  M.  Gaston  Paris  is  explicit 
as  to  the  Minnesingers,  whom  some  Teutonic 
255 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

and  British  writers  hold  to  have  been 
wholly  independent  of  Southern  influences. 
"  La  poesie  lyrique  fran9aise,"  he  says, 
"  exer£a  a  son  tour  de  1'influence  sur  1'Alle- 
magne,  ou  elle  fut  (ainsi  que  son  initiatrice 
meridionale)  imitee  de  bonne  heure  par  les 
Minnesingers." 

All  this  wonderful  efflorescence  of  poetic 
genius  died  away  before  English  had  become 
the  uniform  speech  of  a  welded  nation. 
Consideration  of  it  might,  therefore,  seem 
superfluous  to  a  study  of  the  Provengal 
literature  which  with  Jasmin  lifted  up  its 
head  anew  and  with  Roumanille  and  Mistral 
became  a  living  and  beautiful  creature — 
"  a  divine  figure,"  as  one  of  the  Felibres 
has  it,  "  with  a  Greek  soul  and  a  Latin  spirit, 
with  Celt  and  Visigoth  as  ancestors,  with  all 
the  nations  of  the  world  as  blood-relations, 
and  with  Paradise,  renamed  Provence,  as 
her  Promised  Land."  But  it  is  not  super- 
fluous. In  every  direction  of  understanding 
and  sympathy  the  student  will  find  him- 
self on  surer  ground,  will  more  accurately 
understand  and  appreciate,  in  degree  as  he 
is  well  informed  on  the  history  of  all  that  of 
old  made  Provence  so  famous  in  every  land, 
the  Provence  that  Keats  has  immortalised 
for  us  in  a  single  line.  With  this  know- 
256 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

ledge — and  no  more  attainable  and  easier 
guide  exists  than  the  two  scholarly  and 
entertaining  volumes  by  Mr.  Justin  Smith 
— he  will  discover  a  continuity  that  is 
not  readily  to  be  discerned  otherwise. 
When,  in  our  day,  Teodor  Aubaneu  (Aubanel) 
sings  his  famous  "  Quau  canto  soun  mau 
encanto  " — "Who  sings  his  own  sorrow, 
enchants " — he  is  but  saying,  out  of  the 
same  Proven9al  heart,  in  the  same  Provengal 
tongue  (a  tongue  of  many  dialects,  but  a 
single  language,  as  a  trailing  wild -rose  has 
many  blooms),  and  in  the  same  Provensal 
land,  what  Duke  Guihem  the  Crusader 
sang  in  noo,  "A  song  I'll  fashion  from  my 
grief  "  ;  and  it  might  be  either  Gaucelm 
Faidit  of  Malemort,  the  twelfth-century 
Joglar,  or  Theodore  Aubanel  of  Avignon, 
the  nineteenth-century  Catullus  of  Provence, 
who  writes  : 

L'amour  es  la  vido, 
La  vido  es  V amour  : 
L'amour  nous  convid 
A  cui$  la  flour  .  .  ;. 

for  both  have  said  the  same  thing  in  the  same 
words  of  the  same  singing  speech.  Both — 
the  Rudels  and  Marcabrus,  the  Arnauts  de 
Maruelh  and  Bernarts  de  Ventadorn,  the 
Gaucelms  and  Guihems  of  to-day,  and  the 
ii  257  R 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Jasmins  and  Roumanilles,  the  Mistrals  and 
Aubanels  of  that  dim,  remote  golden  age 
of  song — to  reverse  the  mere  accident  of 
nomenclature — have  a  common  inspiration, 
a  manner  in  common,  a  heart  and  soul  alike. 
"  La  cigalo  di  piboulo,  la  bouscarlo  di  bouis- 
soun,  lou  grihet  di  ferigoulo,  tout  canto  sa 
cansoun  " — "  The  tree -locust  in  the  poplar, 
the  thrush  in  the  wayside  bush,  the  grass- 
hopper under  the  wild  thyme,  each  sings 
its  own  song." 

As  we  know  it,  modern  Provencal  litera- 
ture may  be  said  to  begin  with  Jasmin. 
He  had  precursors  and  contemporaries,  but 
his,  in  remote  Agen,  near  Toulouse,  and 
so  outside  of  latter-day  Provence  proper, 
was  the  first  master-voice  to  arrest  the 
lengue  roman  from  disappearing  in  a  hundred 
channels  and  sands  of  dialect,  the  first  to 
lure  the  cultured  ear  of  France  and  the  world 
beyond.  Jasmin  was  not  a  great  genius  like 
Frederic  Mistral,  but  in  his  hour  and  place 
he  was,  early  and  late,  a  great  pioneer, 
the  proudly  isolated  captain  of  what  seemed 
a  forlorn  hope. 

It  is  an  error,  frequently  iterated,  that 

Proven9al  literature  absolutely  lapsed  during 

some  four  or  five  hundred  years,  and  that 

the  wonderful  revival  which  happened  well 

258 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

on  in  the  nineteenth  century  knew  no 
immediate  precursors.  In  each  century 
there  occur  at  least  one  or  two  eminent 
names,  as,  for  example,  Grassois  La  Bellau- 
diere  in  the  sixteenth  century,  the  Rou- 
manille  or  Mistral  of  that  age  ;  and  Pierre 
Goudelin,  the  Toulousian  Aubanel  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  One  name,  indeed, 
from  the  latter  century  is  as  fresh  to-day 
as  two  hundred  years  ago,  and  perhaps 
better  known  in  Provence  than  any  other 
singer  of  the  past,  the  then-and-now  beloved 
noelliste  Saboly,  whose  lovely  Noels,  or 
Christmas  carols,  may  still  be  heard  through- 
out the  Midi  at  mid-winter.  There  were 
others,  in  each  generation,  whom  we  need 
not  mention  here.  They  were,  however, 
few  and  isolated  and  spoke  no  common 
Provencal  speech,  but  used  each  his  own 
regional  dialect.  Above  all,  none  wrote 
from  out  of  the  people,  as  one  of  the  people, 
for  the  people.  Despourrins  was  a  poetic 
Watteau,  not  a  Burns ;  the  Abbe  Favre, 
the  Herrick  of  the  Midi,  was  the  joyous 
Prior  of  Celleneuve  who  lilted  for  the 
Languedocien  dames  and  gentry,  and  not 
for  the  unlettered  and  indifferent  people  of 
Languedoc.  Even  when  Jasmin  came  upon 
the  scene,  early  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
259 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

there  were  Provencal  singers  of  note,  though 
none  was  for  Provence,  but  for  his  own 
province  only.  The  now  celebrated  modern 
Provencal  anthology  made  by  Roumanille 
and  his  colleagues  had  its  immediate  pre- 
decessor in  1823,  when  the  brothers  Achard 
of  Marseilles  and  seven  other  felibres  (they 
called  themselves  troubalres  then)  published 
a  successful  contemporary  Treasury.  The 
famous  Felibrige  itself  was  the  outcome 
rather  than  the  progenitor  of  the  new  life 
which  became  unified  in  the  Provencal 
Renaissance.  That  league  was  inaugurated 
by  Roumanille  in  1852  at  the  "  Congress 
of  Provencal  Troubadours  "  held  at  Aries  ; 
but  before  its  formation  there  was  a  great 
outburst  of  patois  minstrelsy,  many  books 
appeared  in  this  or  that  dialect,  and 
numerous  periodicals  in  Provencal  and 
French  circulated  from  Marseilles,  Avignon, 
and  Aix.  Roumanille  himself,  indeed,  had 
already  raised  the  Rhone -side  patois  to  a 
language,  for  in  1847  and  1851  had  appeared 
Li  Margarideto  and  Li  Sounjarello. 

To-day  Jasmin  is  not  much  read  in  France. 
He  is  beloved  in  seminaries  and  orphanages, 
and  his  books  are  among  the  "specially 
recommended  volumes  of  eminent  authors  "  ; 
but  even  with  the  Languedociens  of  Agen 
260 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

and  Toulouse  his  fame  is  a  genial  tradition 
rather  than  a  vivid  recognition.  Yet  every 
one  is  supposed  to  know  all  he  has  written, 
and  to  admire  it,  or  at  least  the  Fran- 
couneto.  He  is  to  the  Midi  what  Longfellow 
is  to  America  ;  and  just  as  Longfellow  was 
overrated  but  is  now  unjustly  underrated, 
so  is  it  with  Jasmin.  At  the  same  time  it 
must  be  admitted  that  in  lyric  faculty,  in 
human  range,  in  universal  interest  there  is 
no  just  comparison  of  the  Proven5al  with 
the  American  poet.  Jasmin  is  eminently 
provincial,  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  Nor 
has  his  poetry  that  finish  of  art  which  alone 
(save  perhaps  in  one  or  two  national  songs) 
enables  verse  to  endure.  His  faculty  of 
rhythmic  utterance  was  as  spontaneous  and 
inevitable  as  with  Beranger,  Burns,  or  Heine  ; 
but  he  lacks  the  real  culture  and  intuitive 
knowledge  of  men  and  the  thoughts  of  men 
in  the  outer  world  which  with  these  poets 
was  the  soil  whence  many  of  their  fairest 
flowers  grew. 

Although  in  later  life  Jasmin  produced 
works  of  signal  merit  and  beauty,  notably 
Maltro  rinnoucento  and  Mous  Noubels 
Soubenis  (Martha  the  Innocent  and  New 
Recollections),  his  chef-d'oeuvre  was  the  ever- 
charming  and  delightful  work  of  his  maturity, 
261 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Francouneto,*  completed  when  he  was  forty- 
two,  though  for  seven  years  the  poet  had 
occupied  himself  with  its  composition  and 
revision.  This  lovely  and  graceful  idyll  of 
Provensal  life  is  the  flower  of  modern 
Gascon  literature  and  one  of  the  treasures 
of  French  poetry.  Its  significance  as  a 
Provencal  masterpiece  is  in  the  fact  that  it 
preceded  not  only  the  now  world-famous 
Mireio  of  Mistral  and  the  first  works  of 
Roumanille,  but  also  the  first  definite 
organisation  of  "  the  Provensal  Renais- 
sance." Neither  Roumanille  nor  Mistral, 
not  even  the  love-lyrist  of  Provence  par 
excellence,  Theodore  Aubanel,  has  given  a 
more  winsome  Tanagra  of  Love,  as  one 
might  say,  than  Francouneto — Fran?ouneto 
"  damb  soun  cap  de  luzer  e  soun  ped 
d'Espagnolo  e  sa  taio  de  fissaiou,"  "  with  her 
lizard-head  and  her  Spanish  dancer's  feet 
and  her  waist  like  a  wasp's."  She  is  the 
idol  of  the  poet,  and  idolised  by  all. 

It  is  not  yet  half  a  century  since  the 
Fdibrige  f — "  association  regionaliste  d'ecri- 

*  Fran£ouneto  herself  is  a  reflection  of  Mag- 
nounet,  Jasmin's  beautiful  and  charming  young 
wife,  and  the  lifelong  inspirer  of  his  muse. 

f  This  Provenfal  equivalent  for   "  League  of 
Poets  "  carries  an  accent  only  when  used  as  a 
French  term  in  a  French  context. 
262 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

vains  et  d'artistes  du  Midi  de  la  France  " — 
was  formally  founded.  In  these  forty-seven 
years  the  great  wave,  which  on  its  ascent 
uplifted  Roumanille  and  Mistral  to  its 
crest  and  on  whose  crest  Mistral  still  rests 
supreme,  has  covered  the  Midi  in  one  vast 
triumphant  sweep.  Provence  has  become  a 
nation  recreated  by  genius.  The  shadow 
lies  in  this,  an  already  paralysing  apprehen- 
sion, that  with  the  death  of  Mistral  (when 
that  veritable  disaster  for  Provence  comes 
at  last)  the  great  wave  will  be  crestless,  will 
be  seen  to  have  spent  its  force,  to  be  swinging 
indolently  or  idly  lapsing  along  these  shores 
of  old  romance.  Mistral  himself,  though  he 
has  given  all  his  genius  to  the  Provensal 
national  movement  and  has  nourished  and 
sustained  it  for  half  a  century  with  indomit- 
able power,  resource,  and  influence,  is  not 
blind  to  the  bitter  facts  that  the  language  is 
being  more  and  more  relinquished  by  the 
people  as  the  unique  and  proud  expression 
of  themselves  and  their  nation  ;  that  the 
league  itself  is  now  rather  a  forlorn  hope 
than  an  eager  vanguard  or  militant  army  ; 
and  that  among  all  its  able  and  sometimes 
truly  notable  lieutenants  there  is  not  one, 
now  that  the  veteran  Felix  Gras  has 
passed  away,  who  has  authority  and  power 
263 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

to  command,  to  control,  and  to  lead.  His 
sadness  is  that  the  great  philological  work  of 
his  life,  Lou  Tresor  dou  Felibrige,  is  destined 
to  be,  not  the  dictionary  of  the  enduring 
speech  of  a  people,  but  the  cenotaph  of  the 
language,  the  genius,  and  the  romance  of 
Provence.  His  hope,  as  the  hope  now  of 
so  many  of  the  most  eager  and  far-seeing 
of  the  younger  men  impassioned  with  the 
idea  of  nationality  and  the  Southern  spirit, 
is  in  the  already  potent  and  significant 
Latin  League,  a  league  whose  end  is  to  unite 
the  ardent  spirits  of  the  Latin  race.  It  is 
a  splendid,  an  inspiring,  and  who  dare  say 
an  impossible  ideal.  Recently  the  present 
writer  heard  Mistral's  superb  sirvente,  A  la 
Raco  Latino — that  wonderful  Ode  to  the  Latin 
Race  which  has  been  translated  into  every 
Latin  tongue  and  dialect  and  is  in  a  sense  the 
Marseillaise  of  a  new  Confederation — read  by 
a  beautiful  young  Provengale,  the  daughter 
of  Marius  Girard  and  wife  of  the  brilliant 
Aixois,  Joachim  Gasquet,  and  he  can  never 
forget  the  electrical  effect  of  its  stirring 
clarion -call,  in  the  mellifluous  and  virile 
tongue  of  Provence,  as  given  by  a  "  Queen 
of  the  Felibrige,"  herself  the  devoted 
friend  and  impassioned  disciple  of  the 
great  poet. 

264 


The  Modern  Troubadours 
Aubouro-te,  rapo  latino  .  .  . 

Erne  toun  peu  que  se  desnouso 
A  I'auro  santo  dou  Tabor, 
Tu  sids  ta  rafo  lumenouso 
Que  vieu  de  joio  e  d'estrambord  ; 
Tu  sies  la  rafo  apoustoulico 
Que  sono  li  campano  a  brand  : 
Tu  sies  la  troumpo  que  publico 
E  sies  la  man  que  trais  lou  gran. 

Aubouro-te,  rafo  latino  !  * 

"  There,"  exclaimed  a  member  of  the 
little  company  (one  of  the  most  notable 
of  the  younger  writers  of  the  Midi),  "  there 
is  our  hope,  our  faith,  and  our  flag.  The 
Latin  genius  with  the  ProvenQal  spirit — 
that  is  our  literary  ideal ;  as  the  Latin 
genius  with  the  French  spirit  is  our  political 
ideal — as,  across  the  Alps,  with  our  racial 
kin,  it  is  the  Latin  genius  with  the  Italian 
spirit,  or,  across  the  Pyrenees,  the  Latin 
genius  with  the  Spanisjj  spirit.  But,  trium- 
phantly, from  Palermo  to  Paris,  from  Cadiz 

*  "  Latin  race,  arouse  thyself!  With  thy  hair 
loosened  To  the  holy  air  of  the  Tabor,  Thou  art 
the  race  of  light,  Who  livest  in  enthusiasm  and 
joy  :  Thou  art  the  apostolic  race  That  sets  the 
bells  a-chiming  ;  Thou  art  the  trumpet  that 
proclaims  ;  Thou  art  the  hand  that  sows  the 
seed.  O  Latin  race,  arise  !  " 
265 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

to  Cherbourg,  the  Latin  genius,  the  Latin 
spirit,  the  Latin  League  !  " 

Whether  by  accident  of  poetical  and 
technical  congruity,  or  because  of  a  deeper 
intent,  this  Ode  to  the  Latin  Race  (among 
the  Sirventes  or  Odes  in  Mistral's  most  varied 
and  charming  volume,  Lis  Isclo  d'Or,  The 
Golden  Isles)  follows  that  terrible  outburst 
of  rage  and  passionate  refusal  to  despair, 
written  in  September  1871,  Lou  Roucas  de 
Sisife  (The  Rock  of  Sisyphus] — with  its 
bitter  cry,  "  Erian,  a  passa  terns,  un  pople  " 
("  Of  old  we  were  a  people !  "),  and  its 
fierce  final  anathema  on  the  Emperor  who 
had  sold  France  by  his  selfish  pride  and 
ambition,  "  Siegues  maudi,  maudi,  maudi !  " 
("Be  for  ever  accurst,  accurst,  accurst  !  "). 

It  is  as  the  "  Trumpet  of  the  South," 
however,  even  more  than  as  the  chief 
prophet  of  the  Latin  Union,  that  Mistral 
is  revered  in  Provence.  To-day,  we  fear, 
his  heart  beats  less  high  when  he  recalls 
some  of  the  stanzas  in  his  beautiful  book 
Calendau — that  masterpiece  somewhat  over- 
shadowed by  the  overwhelming  popularity 
of  Mireio  and  the  lyric  variety  of  the 
composite  Lis  Isclo  d*0r — as,  for  example, 
the  invocation  in  Cant  Proumie  (i.e., 
Canto  I.) : 

266 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Amo  de  moun  pat's  .  .».• 

A  mo  de-longo  renadivo, 

Amo  jouiouso  e  ftero  e  vivo, 
Qu'endibes  dins  lou  brut  dou  Rose  e  dou  Rousau 

A  mo  di  seavo  armouniouso 

E  di  calanco  souleiouso, 

De  la  patrio  amo  piouso, 
T'apelle  !  encarno-te  dins  mi  vers  prouvenfau  !  * 

So  much  curiosity  has  been  excited  by 
the  titles  Felibre  and  Felibrige  that  a  word 
should  be  said  on  the  subject.  The  designa- 
tion "  Felibre  " — equivalent  in  the  common 
parlance  to  troubadour,  minstrel,  poet, 
but  originally  signifying  rather  a  bard  in 
the  Celtic  sense,  a  singer  and  poet,  but  also 
a  priest  or  doctor  of  the  divine  law  and  the 
history  of  men — was  found  by  Mistral  in  an 
old  Proven£al  canticle  (a  song  in  a  mystery 
play  or  Christmas  pastoral),  where  Mary 
is  alluded  to  as  meeting  Christ  in  the 
temple  "  among  the  seven  felibres  of  the 
law  "  ("  li  set  felibre  de  la  lei  ").  As  later 

*  "  Soul  of  my  country  .  .  .  Soul  eternally 
reborn  [renewed],  Joyous  and  proud  and  alive, 
Who  [as  a  war-horse]  neighest  against  the  sound 
of  the  Rh6ne  and  the  Rhone-wind  [idiomatically 
"  lou  Rousau  "  means  the  wind  from  the  further 
side  of  the  Rhdne — i.e.,  the  west  wind]  ;  Soul 
of  our  musical  woods  and  our  sunlit  havens, 
Pious  soul  of  my  Fatherland,  I  call  thee  !  May'st 
thou  become  incarnate  in  my  Song  of  Provence  1  " 
267 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

versions  gave  either  "  doctors,"  "  bards," 
"  poets,"  or  "  wise  men,"  Mistral  at  once 
recognised  the  comprehensive  value  of  the 
recovered  ancient  word.  Neither  he  nor 
other  philologists,  however,  have  yet  defi- 
nitively settled  its  derivation,  though,  among 
other  specialists,  Mistral  himself  thinks  it 
possible,  and  Gaston  Paris  and  d'Arbois  de 
Jubainville  are  convinced,  that  the  word 
is  one  of  the  many  Celtic  survivals  in  the 
Proven9al  language,  and  is  composed  of  the 
ancient  Erse  ftlea  and  ber,  equivalent  to 
"chief-singer  "  or  "arch-poet."  In  their  con- 
temporary meaning,  the  word  and  its  deriva- 
tives signify :  Felibre,  a  poet  who  is  a  native 
of  Provence  and  composes  in  Proven9al — a 
term  adopted,  and  certainly  preferable  to 
the  outworn  "  troubadour  "or  "  trouvere  "  ; 
Felibree,  a  bardic  gathering,  or  the  Eistedfodd 
or  Mdd  of  the  Provencals ;  Felibresque, 
felibrique,  two  French  terms  for  that 
which  pertains  to  the  Felibres  or  their 
works,  but  the  first  used  rarely  now 
and  the  second  obsolete,  the  adjectives 
Felibreen  having  replaced  them.  The 
Felibrige  is  the  organised  fellowship  of 
the  Felibres. 

In   recording   the   great   work   done   by 
Roumanille    and    Mistral,    the    chiefs,    and 
268 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Aubanel  and  other  masters  of  the  Provencal 
Renaissance,  one  should  not  forget,  as  com- 
monly in  France,  and  even  in  Provence 
itself,  the  pioneer  work  accomplished  by 
immediate  predecessors — men  who  at  least 
cleared  the  ground,  tilled  and  sowed  and 
made  ready  for  the  great  cultivators,  the 
masters  of  the  olive  and  the  vine,  who 
were  to  come.  Allusion  has  already  been 
made  to  the  brothers  Achard  of  Marseilles 
and  seven  comrades,  troubaires  as  they 
called  themselves,  who  in  1823  published 
their  collective  Proven£al  verse  in  one 
volume.  At  Beziers  in  1839  the  learned 
Proven£al,  J.  Azai's,  presided  over  an 
influential  conference  of  philologists  and 
archaeologists  on  the  origins  and  composi- 
tion of  the  Langue  d'Oc.  About  1840  two 
popular  and  prolific  patois-singers,  Pierre 
Bellot  of  Marseilles  and  Desanat  of  Tarascon, 
decided  to  publish  a  special  "  organ  "  for 
the  social  and  literary  life  and  interests  of 
Provence  ;  but,  as  one  wished  the  periodical 
to  be  bilingual  and  the  other  that  it  should 
be  solely  in  Proven9al,  the  outcome  was 
that  Bellot,  with  Louis  Mery,  brought 
out  Lou  Tambourinaire  et  le  Menestrel, 
while  Desanat  inaugurated  the  longer- 
lived,  more  virile  and  more  national  Lou 
269 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Bouil-Abaisso.     Not   only  did  most  of  the 
scattered  patois-singers  contribute  to  these 
"  organs,"  but  the  earliest  lyrics  and  poems 
of   Roumanille,   Anselme  Mathieu,  Mistral, 
and  others  less  known,  also  appeared  there. 
A  year  after  the  decease  of  Lou  Bouil- 
Abaisso,  which  appeared  at  intervals  during 
six  years,  was  heard  the  first  high  note  of 
the  Midi.     Hitherto  only  in  distant  Gascony 
had  the  Proven£al  Muse  caught  the  ear  of 
the   outside   world.     Now  from   the   little 
town   of   St.    Remy,    the   ancient    Roman 
Glanum,  "  the  town  of  gardens,  poets,  and 
beautiful  women,"  came  the  clear  and  strong 
voice  of  Joseph  Roumanille,  afterwards  to 
be  known  as  the  Father  of  the  Felibrige. 
By    1847    Roumanille    had    published    his 
beautiful  idyllic  poem  Li  Margarideto,  and 
had  written  his  still    finer   Li  Sounjarello 
(The  Dreamers],  when,  at  the  seminary  in 
Avignon  (where  he  was  a  young  teacher), 
he  met  Frederic  Mistral,  then  a    lad  who 
on    his    neighbouring    ancestral    farm    of 
Maillane  (Maiano)  had   already  begun   his 
lifelong  dream  of  the  poetry  and  romance, 
of   the   past    and   present    and   future    of 
Provence,  of  the  conservation  and  purifica- 
tion and  definite  restoration  of  its  beautiful 
language.     The  lad  and  the  young  man  at 
270 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

once  became  intimate  friends.  Mistral  had 
already  a  sympathiser,  oneAnselme  Mathieu; 
and  just  as  at  Oxford  two  young  men, 
William  Morris  and  Edward  Burne- Jones, 
became  intimate  friends  through  reading 
together  one  spring  day  by  the  waterside 
a  poem  by  another  not  much  older  than 
themselves,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  and 
in  turn  gave  their  allegiance  to  this  reveal- 
ing poet,  so  was  it  with  Mistral  Mathieu  and 
Roumanille. 

The  first  public  outcome  of  this  union 
of  three  enthusiasts  was  the  publication 
early  in  1852  of  Li  Prouvenpalo,  an  anthology 
from  the  scattered  writings  or  unprinted 
though  widely  circulated  compositions  of 
the  living  poets  of  the  Midi.  In  August  of 
the  same  year  a  Congress  of  Proven9al 
Poets  was  held  at  Aries  under  the  presidency 
of  Roumanille.  The  following  year  a  still 
more  influential  gathering  was  held  at  Aix, 
the  old  Troubadour  capital.  From  the 
several  regions  of  Provence  came  repre- 
sentatives, sixty-five  in  all  (only  Jasmin 
refrained,  piqued  at  this  extraordinary 
invasion  across  what  he  considered  his  own 
frontiers) ;  and,  as  a  result,  another  and 
greater  anthology  was  published,  Lou  Rou- 
mavdgi  deis  Troubaires  (1854). 
271 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

But  the  "  Centre,"  the  not  yet  named 
Felibrige,  held  itself  -independent,  with 
its  more  concentrated  and  impassioned 
ideals.  On  May  21,  1854,  seven  young 
Proven9al  poets — known  as  the  Avignon 
group — met  in  the  little  chateau  Font- 
Segugne  (Vaucluse),  the  ancestral  home  of 
one  of  them,  Pauloun  Giera,  and  solemnly 
vowed  themselves  to  purify  and  restore 
their  native  speech  and  to  devote  their 
lives  to  this  end,  to  poetry,  and  to  Provence. 
As  our  "  Pre-Raphaelites  "  were  all  men  of 
individual  power  but  were  profoundly  in- 
fluenced by  one  dominating  and  inspiring 
genius,  so  was  it  with  this  "  Avignon 
group."  Roumanille,  Mistral,  Aubanel,  Paul 
Giera,  Jean  Brunet,  Alphonse  Tavan, 
Anselme  Mathieu — all  were  men  of  rare 
and  beautiful  powers ;  but  the  greatest 
were  the  two  youngest,  Aubanel  and  Mistral ; 
and  the  Rossetti  of  these  "  Pre-Raphaelites  " 
was  Mistral.  But  here,  it  may  be  as  well 
to  add,  after  this  accident  of  analogy  all 
likeness  ends. 

Thus  was  formed  the  Felibrige,  after- 
wards to  become  a  League  so  great  and 
comprehensive ;  but  Provence  has  not 
known  any  more  truly  characteristic  singers 
than  the  first  seven  Felibres,  or  any  poets 
272 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

so  great  as  Mistral — "  the  emperor  of  the 
Midi,"  as  the  people  proudly  call  him, 
perhaps  the  greatest  poet  whom  France  has 
produced — and  Theodore  Aubanel,  "  the 
nightingale  of  the  South." 

Of  the  work  of  one  or  two  of  those  early 
Felibres  it  is  not  easy  now  to  find  more 
than  a  few  scattered  poems.  These  must 
be  sought  in  anthologies,  in  the  Provengal 
periodicals,  in  the  annual  almanack  of  the 
Midi  (now  approaching  its  fiftieth  volume, 
and  a  continual  source  of  interest  and 
pleasure,  since  its  first  appearance  as 
VArmana  Prouvengau  per  lou  bel  an  de 
Dieu  1855).  Neither  Paul  Giera  nor  Jean 
Brunet  published  any  collection  of  their 
poetry,  and  Tavan  and  Mathieu  have  been 
content  to  remain  as  respectively  the  authors 
of  Amour  e  Plour  and  La  Farandoulo,  beau- 
tiful books,  but  a  strangely  meagre  out- 
put for  men  of  brilliant  promise  who  began 
thus  and  have  since  given  us  no  more  than 
fragments.  Jean  Brunet  published  nothing 
in  book-form  in  his  lifetime  but  a  pamphlet 
entitled  Bachiquello  sus  La  Luno  (Bagatelles 
on  the  Moon),  but  his  poems  in  the  Armana 
and  elsewhere  are  admired.  There  is  more 
individuality,  with  a  stronger  national 
accent,  in  the  poetry  of  Pauloun  Giera,  who 

II  273  s 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

died  a  young  man.  Students  interested  in 
Proven9al  poetry  should  consult  an  interest- 
ing but  now  somewhat  rare  volume,  edited 
by  Roumanille  and  Mistral  and  published 
by  the  former  at  Avignon.  Entitled  Un 
Liame  de  Rasin,  it  comprises,  besides  bio- 
graphical notices  and  representative  verses 
of  Jean  Reboul  (an  excellent  poet  and  a 
good  baker  of  Nimes),  Castil-Blaze,  Adolphe 
Dumas,  and  Toussaint  Poussel,  the  fifteen 
pieces  left  by  the  Felibre  Paul  Giera,  col- 
lectively entitled  Li  Galejado. 

We  have  seen  it  frequently  stated  in 
Parisian  chronicles  that  two  other  eminent 
French  men  of  letters,  Provencal  by  birth  and 
upbringing,  were  associated  with  Mistral  in 
the  inauguration  of  the  Felibrige  :  Alphonse 
Daudet  and  Paul  Arene.  There  is,  however, 
no  basis  for  the  statement.  These  two 
masters  of  French  prose,  perhaps  the  most 
supple  and  delicate  prose  in  French  litera- 
ture, owed  much  to  the  Provencal  genius, 
which  they  inherited  as  a  birthright,  and  to 
the  Provencal  background  of  life  and  nature 
which  was  a  continual  inspiration  to  both  ; 
but  neither  wrote  in  his  native  dialect, 
or  till  long  after  the  Felibrige  was  an 
influential  and  well-known  League  of  the 
Midi.  Daudet,  indeed,  is  not  known  to  have 
274 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

written  more  than  a  single  set  of  verses  in 
Provencal — La  Cabano  (The  Little  Cabin,  or 
Moor-cot],  which  appeared  in  1880,  in  the 
April  number  of  the  periodical  La  Farandole 
— for  he  did  not  really  himself  write,  as 
commonly  averred,  the  Proven9al  version 
of  the  Lettres  de  mon  Moulin.  La  Cabano 
is  charming,  graceful,  and  its  few  lines 
convey  the  desiderated  atmosphere  of  a 
vast  wind-filled  solitude  ;  but  they  have  the 
suggestion  of  a  tour  de  force,  of  a  literary 
accomplishment— as  has  so  much  of  the 
work,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  of  Jean 
Aicard,  probably  now  in  Paris  and  France 
generally  the  most  widely  read  of  all  living 
Proven9al  writers,  partly  because  of  the 
immense  success  of  his  powerful  and  pic- 
turesque romance,  Le  Roi  de  Camargue, 
and  greatly  owing  to  the  fact  that  he  writes 
solely  in  French.  It  is  significant  that, 
though  a  Languedocien — for  the  great 
romancist  of  the  Midi  was  born  at  Nimes — 
Daudet's  Cabano  is  written  in  the  pure 
Proven9al  of  Aries  and  the  Rhone.  Paul 
Arene,  who  was  born  at  Sister  on,  one  of  the 
least  known  but  not  least  fascinating  and 
picturesque  of  the  smaller  Proven9al  towns, 
never  collected  his  scattered  Proven9al 
verses,  but  these  may  be  found  in  the 
275 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Armana  and  other  annuals  or  periodicals 
of  the  Midi,  and  have  invariably  the  same 
freshness,  charm,  distinction,  and  beauty 
as  characterise  the  French  writings  of  this 
exquisite  prosaist,  the  author  of  Jean  des 
Figues,  La  Gueuse  Parfumee,  La  Vraie 
Tentation  de  Saint  Antoine,  and  other 
masterpieces  in  the  genre  of  the  short 
story. 

Of  Tavan  and  Anselme  Mathieu  a  further 
word  must  be  said,  for  though  so  little 
known  beyond  the  somewhat  vague  frontiers 
of  Provence,  their  names  are  fixed  stars 
in  the  galaxy  of  the  Felibrige.  Tavan  is 
still  alive,  though  he  has  long  ceased  to 
write,  or  at  least  to  publish.  Born  in  1833 
at  Chateau-Neuf-de-Gadagne,  a  beautiful 
region  of  Vaucluse,  he  was — what  he  has 
remained — a  true  son  of  the  soil,  one  of 
those  peasant -aristocrats  who  have  been 
the  pride  and  glory  of  Provence.  He  lived 
the  sane,  arduous  life  of  a  man  of  the  field 
and  olive  orchards  till  he  was  about  twenty, 
by  which  time  his  remarkable  poetic  talent 
had  proved  itself.  Drafted  into  the  army, 
fortune  took  him  to  Rome  during  the  days 
of  the  French  occupation  ;  but  a  serious 
mischance  occurred  there,  for  he  fell  a 
victim  to  malaria.  Later,  alike  unfit  for 
276 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

military  service  and  for  field-labour,  he 
obtained  a  clerical  post  in  connection  with 
the  P.  L.  M.  Railway,  and  has  been  a 
railway  employe  ever  since — that  is,  for  the 
greater  part  of  his  life.  Alphonse  Tavan  is 
none  the  less  a  peasant  in  nature,  thought, 
and  expression,  and  it  is  as  a  beautiful 
and  refined  poet  of  the  people  that  he  is 
loved.  The  shortness  of  his  allotted  spell 
of  happiness  saddened  but  did  not  embitter 
him  :  when  he  lost  his  dearly  loved  wife 
and  little  girl  he  held  them  near  to  him  in 
an  exquisite  lyric  memory.  In  his  preface 
to  his  one  published  collection,  Love  and 
Tears,  he  writes  : 

Commonly  the  life  of  the  poet  is  reflected  in 
his  poetry,  and  in  my  case  it  is  but  right  frankly 
to  admit  that  all  my  life  is  mirrored  in  these 
verses.  I  am  but  a  peasant,  and  have  seen 
little,  have  little  learning,  few  acquirements,  but 
I  could  not  do  otherwise  than  sing  what  I  have 
so  deeply  felt,  my  own  joys  and  sorrows,  that 
is  to  say,  my  life.  Thus  it  is  that  these  rustic 
airs  are  not  idle  carols  of  the  wind,  but  true  songs 
from  a  human  heart. 

And  therein  is  the  secret  of  their  compelling 
charm,  the  reason  why  to  this  day  Love 
and  Tears  is  a  beloved  book  in  many  a 
Provencal  mas,  or  valley  cottage,  or  hillside 
cabano.  That  it  is  so  little  known  elsewhere 
277 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

in  France  is  because  no  French  translation 
was  made  by  the  author,  nor  has  been  since 
made  by  any  admirer.  Of  Tavan's  less 
intimately  personal  poems  some  are  now 
classic,  as,  for  example,  his  early  lyrical 
piece  entitled  Li  Frisoun  de  Marieto  (Man- 
ette*s  Curls],  than  which  Beranger  never 
wrote  anything  more  gay  and  dainty,  with 
its  delightful  idolatry  of  two  coquettish  curls 
on  a  pretty  young  girl's  lustrous  brow — 

Pichot  frisoun  descaussane, 
Merviho  de  noste  vilage —  * 

that  begins  so  characteristically  with  an 
allusion  to  this  village  beauty  as  "  fresco 
e  lisqueto  coume  un  iou  "  ("as  fresh  and 
shiny  as  an  egg ").  Another,  of  a  fine 
nature,  that  evokes  the  strong  national 
note,  is  the  sirvente  (or  species  of  ode) 
called  Prouven$o  e  Troubadour  (Provence  and 
her  Singers],  a  kind  of  symphony  on  the 
chord  struck  in  Mistral's  Calendau. 

O  flour,  erias  trop  proumierenco  ! 
Nacioun  en  flour,  I'espaso  trenco 
Toun  espandido  /  .  .  .f 

*  "  Dear  little  lawless  curls,  the  marvel  of  our 
village." 

t  "  O  flower  of    Provence,  too  soon  was  thy 
blossoming  :    O  nation  in  flower,  the  sword    cut 
thee  off  in  thine  early  beauty." 
278 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Here  the  poet  recalls  how  the  Provencal 
singers  carried  the  art  of  poetry  and  the 
fine  fteur  of  life  into  other  countries,  and  how 
all  Europe  listened  with  rapt  delight  to  this 
honey -sweet  voice  :  "  1'Europe  s'estasio  a 
vosto  melicouso  e  siavo  pouesio."  And  this 
joy,  everywhere  audible  in  the  old  Proven9al 
poetry,  was,  says  the  poet,  and  truly,  the 
first  glad  modern  expression  of  the  romance 
and  beauty  and  fidelity  of  love,  "  for  their 
poetry  is  all  love  "  : 

L' amour  !  aquelo  flour  poulido 

Aquelo  flour  dou  mes  de  mat, 

Ateno  I'avie  pas  culido 

Li  Mouro  e  li  Latin  nimai  ; 
Vous-dutri  sias  vengu  :  la  floureto  oudourouso, 

Embaumo  vosto  amo  amourouso, 

L'amour  vous  alargo  si  doun  : 
Escampant  vosti  cor,  courres  touti  li  terra  : 
Bernat  de  Ventadour  enebrio  I'Anglo-terro, 

Giraud  de  Bournelh,  I'Aragoun. 

Ves  I'ltalio  e  I'Alemagno, 

Coume  se  souvenon  de  vous  I 

Vosto  flour  creis,  vosto  flour  gagno 

Li  serre  li  mai  auturous  : 
Beatris  la  divino  e  Lauro  I'estelado, 

Sus  I'aubo  roso  encimelado, 

S'emplanon  amount  dins  I'azur, 
Car  Petrarco  e  lou  Dante  an  senti  vosto  flamo, 
An  beisa  vosto  flour,  an  coumpr$s  vostis  amo, 

An  respira  voste  amour  pur  ! 
279 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Erias  trop  beu  .  .  .  mats  la  tempesto 
Agouloupo  nosto  nacioun  !  * 

Another  beautiful  and  stirring  ode,  the 
sirvente  entitled  Ma  Maestresso,  is  universally 
known  in  Provence,  and  is  even  in  some 
degree  an  accepted  national  chant.  The 
"  mistress  "  that  the  poet  sings  is  no  beautiful 
woman,  is  not  even  Provence,  but  Liberty. 
The  poem  appeals  to  all  who  can  cry  with 
the  author  :  "  Ai  la  fe  que  trasporto,  ai 
1'espero  qu'esbriho,"  "  I  have  the  faith  that 

*  "  Love,  this  beautiful  flower,  this  flower  of 
life's  springtide,  neither  the  Moor  nor  the  Roman, 
nor  Athens  herself,  has  truly  culled  it  :  but  you, 
Proven?al  singers  of  old,  come  .  .  .  and  in  its 
fragrant  beauty  embalm  your  very  soul,  and 
Love  dowers  you  with  every  gift  he  has  to  give. 
With  hearts  uplifted  you  wander  now  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth.  Bernard  de  Ventadour  intoxi- 
cates England  with  his  song,  and  all  Spain  listens 
entranced  to  Giraud  de  Borniel. 

"  And  Italy  and  Germany,  can  they  ever  forget 
you  ?  The  Flower  of  Song  grows,  may  be  gathered, 
on  their  proudest  heights  !  The  divine  Beatrice, 
the  starry  Laura,  shine  from  on  high,  twin-planets 
over  the  rose  and  azure  of  Dawn — for  Dante 
and  Petrarch  lit  their  hearts  at  your  flame,  have 
kissed  your  sacred  flower  and  breathed  its  spiri- 
tual fragrance,  and  known  that  pure  and  perfect 
love. 

"  You    were    too    beautiful  .  .  .  the    tempest 
broke — and  our  nation  was  no  more  !  " 
280 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

uplifts,  and  hope  unquenchable."  It  is  a 
passion,  not  a  deep  devotion  only,  that  he 
sings,  and  a  passion  that  strengthens  with 
the  passing  years  : 

Sieu  amourous  ben  mai,  O  ben  mai  I     Ma  mestresso 
Es  divo.     En  beuta  pas  so  e  Minervo  e  Venus  : 
D'elo  raive,  e'n  pantai  .  .  .  ma  mestresso  es 
divesso* 

It  is,  however,  as  much  a  Christian  as  a 
pagan  cry  : 

Lou  Crist,  noste  grand  pvieu,  soun  plus  caud  calig- 

naire, 
Vougue  la  prouclama.  .  .  .f 

The  poem  ends  : 

Situ  d6u  pople  e  moun  cor  i'a  douna  ma  tendresso, 
E  vous  dise  lou  noum  de  ma  bello  mestresso  : 
Ma  Mestresso  es  la  Liberia  ! 

The  late  Anselme  Mathieu,  one  of  the 
leading  members  of  the  Felibrige,  and  famous 
on  account  of  his  unique  achievement,  La 
Farandoulo,  was  also  a  Vauclusien,  and 
born  too  at  a  "  Chateau-Neuf,"  though  the 

*  "  More  and  more  I  love  her.  My  mistress 
is  godlike.  In  beauty  she  excels  Minerva  and 
Venus.  I  dream  of  her,  and  in  my  dreams  .  .  . 
my  mistress  is  a  goddess." 

t  "  Christ,  our  great  chief  and  her  most  ardent 
votary,  wished  to  proclaim  her.  .  .  ." 
28l 


birthplace  of  the  "  Felibre  di  poutoun  " 
("the  poet  of  kisses")  was  the  lovely 
Chateau-Neuf-du-Pape,  between  Orange 
and  Avignon.  Like  Mistral,  Mathieu  came 
of  good  Proven9al  stock,  and  of  parents 
who  spoke  only  the  native  tongue  of  the 
Midi ;  he  was  Mistral's  schoolfellow  at 
Avignon  and  his  fellow-student  for  three 
years  at  Aix,  whose  literary  associations 
and  beautiful  neighbourhood  inspired  both 
poets.  Anselme  Mathieu,  Mistral,  and 
Aubanel  are  the  "  aristocrats "  of  the 
Provengal  writers,  and  the  note  of  distinction 
revealed  itself  early  in  the  young  singer  from 
Vaucluse  in  his  admirable  translations  into 
pure  Proven9al  of  some  of  the  finest  odes 
and  lyrics  of  Virgil  and  Catullus.  Those 
who  would  know  more  of  the  man  and  his 
life  and  life-work  should  consult  MistraPs 
intimate  and  generous  preface  to  La  Faran- 
doulo,  wherein  he  alludes  to  his  friend's 
work  as  one  of  the  loveliest  fruits,  as  a  per- 
fect fruit,  from  the  tree  of  Provencal  genius, 
and  adds  that,  for  the  turn  of  the  phrase, 
the  lovely  suggestiveness  of  the  thought 
and  metrical  variety  and  suppleness,  the 
poetry  of  Mathieu  more  than  that  of  any 
other  contemporary  resembles  the  fine  fteur 
of  Troubadour  song.  This  preface  is  well 
282 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

worth  perusal  for  its  own  sake.  Mistral 
invariably  writes  beautiful  prose,  at  once 
virile  and  delicate,  and  in  the  mass  of  his 
miscellaneous  sketches,  studies,  remini- 
scences, introductions,  &c.,  there  are  few 
better  examples  of  his  charm  as  prosateur 
than  this  preface  to  La  Farandoulo.* 

What  he  says  of  La  Farandoulo  may  be 
summed  up  in  a  Provensal  phrase  now 
become  classical  in  the  Midi :  "  You  will 
find  here  young  girls,  flowers,  and  kisses, 
and  if  you  love  kisses,  flowers,  and  young 
girls,  The  Farandole  will  content  you." 

The  book  consists  of  some  forty-five 
poems  and  lyrics,  grouped  in  three  sec- 
tions, Lis  Aubado  (The  Aubades,  or  Songs 
at  Sunrise),  Li  Souleiado  (Songs  of  the 
Noontide),  and  Li  Serenade  (Serenades — 
by  implication,  Songs  of  Dusk  and  Love). 
Many  of  these  are  in  light,  joyous  measures, 
with  a  Burns-  or  Beranger-like  lilt,  as  the 
song  of  one  Gatouno,  who  was  ill  with  love  : 
Gatouno, 

Malautouno, 

Malautouno  d'amour, 
Paureto  ! 

I  floureto 

Countaro  si  doulour. 

*  La  Farandoulo,  par  Anselme  Mathieu  (second 
edition,  with  French  translation).    Avans-Prepaus 
283 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

But  perhaps  Mathieu  is  most  successful  in 
the  quatrain,  to  which  he  gave  a  new  swift 
and  deft  movement,  as  in  the  altogether 
delightful  Coy  Maid  (La  Paurouso),  or  The 
Old  Vineyard  (La  Vignasso),  the  finest  vine- 
chant  of  the  Midi  : 

L'agouldnfo  de  ti  bouqueto, 

Just  n'ai  beisa  I'espino,  Agueto, 

Just  I'espino  !  .  .  .  E  pi&i,  que  U  fai  ? 

Un  poutoun  encaro  !  .  .  .   A i  !  Ai  !   A i  !  * 

Or: 

Ai  uno  vigno  d  Cast&u-Nou, 
Dins  un  valoun  di  Coumbo-Masco, 
Sus  lo  revds  d'un  degouldu  : 
Clafis  ma  tino,  emplis  mi  fiasco.^ 

(Introduction)  par  Frederic  Mistral.  (Avignon  : 
Roumanille,  1868.) 

*  "  From  the  wild-rose  of  thy  mouth,  I  have 
but  kissed  a  little  thorn  away — just  a  little  thorn 
— no  more,  and  what  is  that  ?  Now,  one  real 
kiss  !  .  .  .  Ah  !  Ah  !  Ah  !  " 

|  "  I  have  a  vine  at  Chateau -Neuf, 
In  an  enchanted  valley, 
Lone  in  a  rocky  ravine  : 
Ah,  but  my  cellar  and  flasks  remember  it !  " 

The  writer  first  heard  Lo  Vignasso  recited  in  a 
little  arbour,  over  "  old  wine  of  Crau,"  in  the 
wild  highlands  of  Vauvenargues,  and  on  inquir- 
ing what  was  the  actual  meaning  of  "  Coumbo- 
Masco,"  was  told  that  "  li  Coumbo-Masco  "  were 
"enchanted  valleys,"  or  "valleys  of  the  be- 
witched." 

284 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

The  wine  of  the  Enchanted  Valley,  from 
the  old  vineyard  planted  two  hundred 
years  or  more  ago  among  the  broom  and 
thyme  in  the  honey-pale  moonshine,  amid 
fairy  laughters,  has  intoxicated  many  a 
poetic  brain  beside  that  of  Anselme  Mathieu. 
One  thinks  of  "  lou  vin  dou  valoun  di 
Coumbo-Masco  "  as  no  less  symbolical  than 
the  Fay  in  Mistral's  UAmiradou. 

Au  castbu  de  Tarascoun 
I' a  'no  rdino,  i'a  'no  fado, 
Au  casteu  de  Tarascoun 
I'a  'no  fado  que  s'escound.* 

It  is  perhaps  difficult  now  to  understand 
aright  the  far-reaching  influence  as  well  as 
vogue  of  Joseph  Roumanille  ;  some,  much  of 
it  no  doubt,  was  personal.  Roumanille  had 
a  dominant  individuality  as  remarkable  as 
that  of  Victor  Hugo,  with  a  passionate 
enthusiasm  and  ardour  for  Provence  and 
Provengal  literature  equalled  only  by 
Frederic  Mistral.  Of  these  two  great  in- 
fluences— one  the  influence  of  a  remarkable 
mind  and  of  a  true,  if  not  a  great  poet, 
the  other  the  influence  of  a  master-mind  and 

*  "  In  the  Chateau  of  Tarascon 
Is  a  queen,  is  a  Fay, 
In  the  Chateau  of  Tarascon 
Is  a  Fay  who  hideth." 
285 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

of  the  greatest  living  poet  of  the  Latin  races 
— it  would  be  superfluous  to  write  here  in 
detail.  French,  German,  Italian,  Spanish, 
Scandinavian  studies  on  Roumanille  and 
Mistral  have  appeared  by  scores,  and  if 
these  writers  are  less  known  and  less  appre- 
ciated among  ourselves  than  among  other 
nations  it  is  by  no  means  wholly  from  lack 
of  interpreters,  from  the  first  faithful  if 
not  very  flexible  translation  of  Mistral's 
Mireio  (by  an  American,  Miss  Preston)  to 
the  charming  Embassy  to  Provence  of  Mr. 
Thomas  A.  Janvier.  In  France  a  hundred 
writers  have  dealt  with  Mistral  and  the 
Felibres,  in  books,  treatises,  studies,  articles, 
anthologies,  and  individual  translations, 
perhaps  none  so  authoritatively  and  ably 
as  M.  Paul  Marieton.*  So  great,  indeed, 
is  the  library  of  books  dealing  with  modern 
Provence  that  only  a  few  enthusiasts  could 
possibly  cope  with  it.  On  Mistral  alone 
quite  a  library  of  "  studies  "  has  accumu- 
lated. 

But,  to-day,  when  we  take  up  the  (still 
untranslated)  Li  Margarideto,  or  the  more 

*  E.g.,  in  the  long  and  important  articles  on  the 
Felibres,  and  on  Mistral,  Aubanel,  &c.,  in  the 
Grande  Encyclopedic,  and  in  books,  notably  La 
Terre  Provencale. 

286 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

widely  known  Li  Sounjarello  of  Roumanille, 
it  is  to  read  with  no  little  wonder  what  one 
has  so  often  heard  praised  as  masterpieces. 
For  these  poems,  masterly  as  in  a  sense 
they  are,  have  the  beauty  of  genre  rather 
than  the  final  and  universal  beauty.  They 
differ  in  kind  from  The  Rhcne  or  Calendau 
or  even  the  Mireio  of  Mistral,  bearing 
somewhat  of  the  same  relation  to  these  as 
the  poetry  of  Tannahill  or  Ferguson  to  the 
"  central  "  poetry  of  Burns  ;  or,  let  us  say, 
as  the  essentially  parochial  stories  of  John 
Gait  to  the  universal  romances  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott. 

It  is  regrettable  that  Li  Margarideto  has 
not  been  translated  into  French,  for  in 
France  justice  has  not  been  done  to  this 
pioneer  work  of  the  Proven9al  revival. 
When  it  appeared  in  1847,  it  came  upon 
the  poets  of  the  Midi  as  convincingly  as 
the  genius  of  Burns  came  upon  the  innumer- 
able minor  singers  of  Scotland.  This  de- 
lightful idyllic  poem  is  in  four  sections  : 
Quan  Li-Z-Agrena  Flourissien,  Quan  Li 
Bla  se  Maduravon,  Quan  Li  Feuio  Toum- 
bavon,  Ou  cantoun  dou  Fid,  which  may  be 
rendered,  When  the  Blossoms  Whiten,  When 
the  Grain  Ripens,  When  the  Leaves  Fall, 
and  By  the  Winter -Hearth.  Popular  as 
287 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

The  Daisies,  Li  Margarideto,  was,  and 
has  remained,  Roumanille's  fame  was  far 
more  widely  enhanced  by  the  lovely  lyri- 
cal narrative  -  poem  Li  Sounjarello  (The 
Dreamers),  published  five  years  later  (1852)  ; 
and  was  perhaps  more  intimately  and  per- 
manently deepened  by  his  beautiful  Li 
Nouve  (Noels),  some  forty  in  all,  published 
first  in  magazines  and  journals  or  "  fasci- 
cules "  between  1845  and  1859.  The  vogue 
of  Li  Sounjarello,  as  a  poetic  love-tale, 
resembled  that  enjoyed,  with  us,  in  the 
mid- Victorian  period,  by  The  Gardener's 
Daughter.  The  poem  has  considerable 
metrical  diversity,  apart  from  the  little 
lyrics  it  enshrines,  but  here  is  a  repre- 
sentative divisional  section  : 

Dindouleto,  parla  me  d'eu  : 
En  travessant  la  mar,  aves  pas  vis  moun  beu  ? 
Dessu  si  mas  bessai  aves  fu  la  pauseto. 
Es  que  vous  a  ren  di  se  ma  mio  Leleto  ?  .  .  . 

Aco  se.m'ero  pas  fideu  !  .  .  . 
Pamen,  plouravo  tan  quand  me  laisse  souleto, 
Que  me  doune  la  croux  de  sa  maire,  e  I'aneu  .  .  ',  -. 
Mai  que  dise  ?  sieu  folo  /  ...  Ana  leu,  dindouleto, 

A  na-ie  pienta  moun  bonjour  ; 
Pouvta-ie  su  vosti-z-aleto 

Moun  Idngui,  mi  poutoun  e  mi  souspir  d'amour  .  .  . 
Diga-il  que  I'espere,  6  bravi  dindouleto  !  * 

*  "  Swallows,  tell  me  of  him  !     In  crossing  the 
288 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Besides  Li  Margarideto,  Li  Sounjarello, 
Li  Nouve,  and  his  share  in  Prouven$alo  (The 
Provencals)  and  in  that  delightful  and 
invaluable  annual  L'Armana  Prouvenfau, 
Roumanille  published  notable  minor  works 
in  verse,  such  as  La  Part  de  Dieu  and  Li 
Flour  de  Sauvi  (Flour  o'  the  Sage),  and  the 
longer  and  more  masterly  La  Campano 
Mountado,  a  mock-heroic  poem  in  seven 
cantos,  which  so  capable  a  critic  as  M.  de 
Pontmartin  ranked  as  Roumanille's  most 
original  production.  His  complete  poetical 
productions  may  be  had  in  one  volume, 
modestly  entitled  Lis  Oubreto  (Minor  Works). 

seas,  have  you  not  seen  my  beloved  ?  Mayhap  you 
rested  on  the  masts  of  his  ship  ?  Did  he  whisper 
nothing  to  you  of  his  dear  Leleto  ?  Oh  !  if  he 
has  not  remained  true  to  me  !  .  .  .  and  yet, 
how  he  wept  the  day  he  left  me  all  alone,  and  gave 
me  the  little  cross  that  had  been  his  mother's, 
and  the  ring.  .  .  .  But  what  am  I  saying  ?  I 
am  mad  !  .  .  .  Quick,  quick,  little  swallows, 
breathe  on  him  my  morning  greeting  :  carry  him 
on  your  little  wings  my  impatience,  my  kisses, 
my  sighs  of  longing.  Whisper  that  I  await  him, 
that  I  a  waif  him,  O  good  little  swallows  !  " 

This  quotation  is  from  the  original  edition. 
It  was  after  the  publication  of  Li  Sounjarello 
that  the  Provengal  language  was  given  its  classic 
uniformity,  mainly  by  or  through  the  influence  of 
Mistral.  Later  versions  of  Li  Sounjarello  have  a 
revised  text. 

II  289  T 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

In  Provence  there  is  nothing  of  his  so 
loved  among  the  poor  hill-folk  and  vintagers 
as  his  Noels.  Saboly  himself,  the  prince  of 
"  the  Singers  of  Bethlehem,"  never  wrote 
anything  lovelier,  more  exquisitely  tender, 
than  Li  Crecho,  with  its  plea  of  the  Seraph 
to  God,  that  when  the  little  Jesus  first  knew 
mortal  cold  in  the  manger  at  Bethlehem  : 

Es  moun  rire  que  I'assoulavo, 
Es  moun  alo  que  I'acatavo  ; 
L'escaufave  em6  moun  alen.* 

Last  Yuletide,  the  present  writer  heard 
sung  one  midnight  in  the  streets  of  Aix — 
Als,  la  antico  vilo  di  Troubaires — another 
lovely  Noel  of  Roumanille's,  La  Chato 
Avuglo,  The  Blind  Girl,  of  which  the  first 
stanza  runs  thus  : 

Ero  lou  jour  tant  beu  qu'uno  Vierge  enfantavo 

A  Betelen  ; 
E  soun  fru  benesi,  de  la  fre  tremoulavo 

Su'n  pau  de  fen  ; 
Lis  ange,  eilamoundant,  tout-beu-just  acabaron 

Soun  "  Gloria," 
E,  de  tout  caive,  au  jas  pastre  e  pastmsso  anavon 

S'ageinouia.^ 

*  "It  was  my  smile  that  consoled  Him,  my 
wings  that  sheltered  Him,  my  breath  that  warmed 
Him." 

•j-  "  It  was  on  the  wondrous  day  when  a  Virgin 
bore  a  child  at  Bethlehem.  This  blessed  fruit  of 
290 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Roumanille,  the  son  of  a  gardener,  and  of 
a  mother  "  of  the  old  race  of  the  Gardeners 
of  St.  Remy,  the  town  of  gardens,"  was  born 
among  the  beautiful  gardens  he  so  often 
lovingly  described,  on  August  8,  1818. 
Even  in  his  long  and  ardently  enthusiastic 
as  well  as  arduous  life  he  was  acknow- 
ledged as  the  "  chef  de  depart  "  ;  and  since 
his  death  a  few  years  ago  his  fame  has 
grown,  not  lessened,  as  the  most  potent 
and  victorious  general  in  the  great  move- 
ment of  which  Mistral  is  the  commander-in- 
chief. 

It  is  but  right  to  add  a  word  on  Madame 
Roumanille,  wife  of  one  famous  Felibre, 
and,  as  Rose-Anai's  Gras,  sister  of  another, 
herself  a  fine  poet  and  a  woman  who,  as 
friend  and  publisher  of  so  many  of  the 
poets  of  the  Midi,  has  had  a  very  real 
influence  on  the  development  of  contempo- 
rary Proven£al  literature.  A  little  poem  of 
hers  in  sonnet  form  suggests  comparison 
with  The  Toys  of  Coventry  Patmore,  and  is 
no  less  pathetic  and  dignified.  Called  Lou 

the  Divine  Love  trembled  in  the  mortal  cold  of 
the  manger  :  but  the  thronging  angels  rejoicingly 
burst  into  song,  singing  the  '  Gloria  '  there  on 
high,  as  the  shepherd  folk  here  on  earth,  bending 
their  knees  before  the  new-born  Son." 
291 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Chambroun,  The  Little  Room,  it  may  be  thus 
rendered,  perforce  baldly,  in  prose  : 

Here,  in  a  corner,  are  her  little  cart,  her  doll, 
her  rattle,  lying  abandoned  on  the  floor  beside 
her  pretty  baby-skirt  ;  yonder  on  the  wall  of  the 
silent  room  hangs  the  little  one's  amber  necklace  : 
dust,  like  a  shroud,  covers  the  desolate  cradle. 
Here,  midway,  are  her  tiny  blue  slippers,  so 
lively  ever,  so  restless.  .  .  .  O  dear  God,  the 
music  of  those  little  pattering  feet  only  so  brief 
a  while  ago.  .  .  .  Hist !  some  one  comes  .  .  . 
I  hear  steps.  Of  this  little  room  say  nothing, 
not  a  word.  Never  again  will  the  mother 
enter  it. 

There  is  no  need  to  dwell  in  detail  on  the 
work  and  achievement  of  Frederic  Mistral. 
His  fame  is  in  all  lands.  Translations  of 
his  chief  works  exist  in  French,  Italian, 
Spanish,  and  Portuguese — and  not  in  the 
Latin  tongues  only,  but  in  German,  Dutch, 
Scandinavian,  Russian.  In  English  Mireio 
has  been  at  least  twice  translated.  The 
greatest  poet  of  Provence,  he  is  also  by  far 
the  greatest  living  poet  of  France — having, 
indeed,  within  the  definitely  narrower  limits 
of  lyrical  excellence,  no  rival  in  any  of  the 
Latin  races  save,  perhaps,  Carducci.  As 
scholar,  as  poet,  as  man  of  letters,  as  the 
pioneer  of  the  intellect  of  the  South  and  the 
captain  of  its  soul,  as  a  Provencal  of  the 
292 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Pro  verbals,  with  the  greatness  and  nobility 
of  his  nature  and  the  unequalled  charm  of 
his  personality,  Mistral  is,  in  truth,  worthy 
of  his  popular  designation,  "  the  Emperor 
of  the  Midi."  Mireio,  Calendau,  Lis  Isclo 
d'Or,  Lou  Rose  are  already  classics.  Lamar- 
tine's  prophecy  about  "  this  new-risen  genius 
at  Avignon  "  has  been  justified  to  the  full. 
The  worship  of  Mistral  in  Provence  is  un- 
equalled ;  such  a  triumph  as  his,  when  ten 
thousand  people  in  the  vast  amphitheatre 
at  Orange  simultaneously  arose  on  his 
unexpected  entrance,  is  unparalleled  in 
contemporary  homage,  except  perhaps  by 
the  more  fickle  and  transitory  tribute  of 
Paris  to  Victor  Hugo. 

In  his  preface  to  Li  Parpaioun  Blu  (the 
amazing  Provencal  achievement  of  that 
adopted  Felibre,  the  Irish  scholar  and 
poet,  W.  Bonaparte-Wyse)  Mistral  speaks 
of  "  lou  Reiaume  dou  Souleu,"  and  again  of 
"  la  flamo  felibren9o  "  ;  and  of  no  Provencal, 
living  or  dead,  could  it  be  said  that  more  than 
Frederic  Mistral  he  had  "  the  poetic  flame," 
or  that  he  had  as  good  a  claim  to  the  sceptre 
of  "  the  Kingdom  of  the  Sun."  Scattered 
through  his  many  addresses  and  prefaces 
are  scores  of  characteristic  sayings  which 
reveal  the  man,  but  few  perhaps  better  than 
293 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

words  such  as  these  :  "I  believe  in  the 
audacity  which  accomplishes  miracles  ;  and 
I  believe  that  the  higher  one  aspires  the 
higher  one  attains."  For  Mistral,  as  for 
Mirabeau  on  a  famous  occasion,  "  im- 
possible "  is  a  stupid  word.  For,  in  truth, 
he  has  achieved  the  seeming  impossible. 
In  that  extraordinary  dialect-revival  so 
noticeable  in  several  countries  at  this 
moment,  no  one  man  has  had  so  potent  an 
influence  as  Mistral.  He  has  done  three 
wonderful  things,  remarked  an  eminent 
Felibre  to  the  present  writer  : 

He  put  a  soul  into  a  revived  language  ;  he  has 
himself  used  that  language  as  Dante  and  Petrarch 
used  Italian,  as  Heine  used  German  ;  and,  lest 
its  mortal  body  should  perish,  he  has  embalmed 
it  for  all  time  in  that  marvellous  triumph  of 
philological  science,  Lou  Tresor  dou  Felibrige  t 

Born  in  1830  at  Maillane,  an  ancestral 
property  near  the  small  village  of  the  same 
name  in  the  arrondissement  of  Aries  and 
within  a  few  miles  of  St.  Remy — "  St.  Remy, 
with  its  gardens,  its  gentle  folk,  and  pretty 
girls,  its  lovely  and  picturesque  neighbour- 
hood, its  ancient  ruined  temples  and  arches, 
its  poetic  tradition,  the  St.  R6my  so  asso- 
ciated with  Roumanille  and  Felix  Gras  and 
Marius  Girard  " — Frederic  Mistral,  "Capoulie 
294 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

dou  Felibrige,"  has  lived  there  ever  since,  a 
peasant,  a  prince,  and  a  poet.  In  the  history 
of  modern  Provencal  literature  there  are 
no  landmarks  more  familiar  than  Mireio 
(1859),  Calendau  (1867),  Lis  Isclo  d'Or  (1875), 
Nerto  (1880),  La  Reino  Jano  (1890),  and 
Lou  Rose  (The  Rhone,  1894).  These  six 
works  also — to  change  the  metaphor — are 
milestones  on  the  road  followed  by  the 
minor  developments  in  the  last  half-century. 
Not  even  the  fame  of  Jasmin  equalled  that 
which  came  to  Mistral  when  the  beautiful 
idyllic  romance  of  Mireio  took  Provence  and 
all  France  by  storm — at  first  in  great  part, 
no  doubt,  because  of  that  literary  bomb- 
shell, the  famous  pronouncement  of  the 
then  all-powerful  Lamartine  that  (in 
effect) 

in  Mistral  a  great  epic  poet  is  born,  a  true 
Homeric  poet  in  this  day,  a  primitive  poet  in  this 
age  of  decadence,  a  poet  who  has  given  a  new 
sensation  and  a  new  scope  to  modern  literature, 
a  poet  who  has  created  a  language  of  an  idiom, 
as  Petrarch  created  Italian. 

Though  that  superb  epical  achievement 
Calendau  did  not  have  the  vogue  of  its 
predecessor,  it  is  now,  perhaps,  the  more 
widely  admired.  The  earlier  poem  may  be 
said  to  embody  the  Provence  of  the  plains 
295 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

and  pastoral  valleys,  the  Provence  of  the 
Crau,  the  Camargue,  and  of  the  Rhone  ; 
the  other,  to  embody  the  Provence  of 
mountain  and  sea.  But  of  all  Mistral's 
books  none  is  now  so  familiar,  so  loved 
and  admired,  as  his  collection  of  dramatic 
lyrics,  ballads,  odes,  and  other  poems, 
collectively  entitled  Lis  Isclo  d'Or  (The 
Golden  Isles).  Here  all  his  most  famous 
lyrical  triumphs — from  the  Ode  to  the  Latin 
Race  to  the  delightful  and  so  often  quoted 
Lou  Prego-Dieu  (a  kind  of  grasshopper) — 
are  to  be  found.  Lis  Isclo  d'Or,  in  technical 
mastery,  ranks  with  the  finest  work  of 
Hugo,  Banville,  Leconte  de  Lisle,  and 
Baudelaire,  with  more  of  the  pulse  of 
universal  humanity.  Nerto,  an  epical  poem 
in  the  style  of  the  chivalrous  romances 
and  of  Ariosto,  is  a  Provencal  chronicle 
of  the  Popes  in  Avignon.  Though  hailed 
with  welcome  and  crowned  by  the  French 
Academy,  it  remains  the  least  widely 
known  (and  in  Provence  the  least  read) 
of  Mistral's  works.  The  fine  tragic  drama, 
La  Reino  Jano,  was  more  impressive  to 
witness  on  the  stage  (especially  at  Orange) 
than  to  read  ;  and  perhaps  only  to  Pro- 
vencals is  there  compelling  magic  in  the  name 
of  the  famous  princess  round  whose  memory 
296 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

so  many  native  legends,  romances,  songs, 
and  ballads  have  gathered.  In  The  Poem 
of  the  Rhone  Mistral  has  produced  his  epi- 
cal chef-d'oeuvre.  Here,  unquestionably,  he 
justifies  that  supreme  praise  of  Lamartine's 
which  so  profoundly  impressed  the  whole 
European  world  of  culture. 

Of  two  of  his  most  valued  colleagues  and 
literary  contemporaries,  Felix  Gras  and 
Harms  Girard,  though  not  members  of  the 
original  "  league  of  poets,"  much  might  be 
written  here  were  there  space  to  spare. 
Certainly  no  student  of  contemporary  Pro- 
ven$al  literature  can  afford  to  overlook 
M.  Girard's  Lis  Aupiho  (The  Lesser  Alps, 
behind  St.  R6my),  published  in  1888,  and 
the  larger  and  finer  collection,  with  its  often 
valuable  and  always  interesting  notes,  La 
Crau  (the  great  stony  plain  of  the  Bouches 
du  Rhone,  contiguous  to,  but  distinct 
from,  the  vaster  Camargue,  the  Maremma 
of  Provence).  Marius  Girard  is  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  of  the  Felibres  of  to-day, 
and  as  he  is  still  vigorous  in  mind  and  body 
we  may  look  for  further  works  of  fresh 
collections  from  his  fertile  pen.  His  con- 
temporary, Felix  Gras,  is  much  more 
widely  known,  and  within  the  last  five  years, 
indeed,  has,  as  a  romancist,  won  also  a 
297 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

wide  circle  of  readers  in  the  United  States 
and  Great   Britain  through  the  admirable 
translation   by   Mrs.    Catherine   Janvier   of 
his  trilogy  of  The  Terror  (The  Reds  of  the 
Midi,  The  Terror,  The  White  Terror).    Four 
years  younger   than   Marius   Girard,   Felix 
Gras  (1844),  while  still  a  young  man  (i.e., 
in    his    thirty-second    year),   published   Li 
Carbounie   (The    Charcoal-burners),   and   at 
once  became  famous.    The  note  struck  was 
a  new  one,  intensely  virile,  robust,  sonorous. 
This  "  epopee  "  in  twelve  cantos  has  no  real 
rival  in  Proven$al  literature  after  Mistral's 
Calendau  or  Nerto  :    indeed  few  works  of 
the  kind  can  even  be  compared  with  it, 
except  perhaps  the  splendidly  picturesque 
Chansou  Lemouzina  of  the  Abbe  Roux,  the 
great  poet  of  the  Limousin.     In  later  life 
he  achieved  another  success  in  kind,  with 
Toloza,  a  geste  Provencale  in  twelve  cantos 
dealing  with  the  famous  crusade  of  Simon 
de  Montfort.    In  1887  ne  published,  through 
Savine  of  Paris  (one  of  the  few  instances 
where  a  Provencal  book  has  been  printed 
beyond  the  unofficial  frontier  of  the  Midi), 
his    chef-d'oeuvre,    Lou    Roumancero    Prou- 
vencau.    The  book  consists  of  a  score  or  so 
of  romantic  ballads  or  ballad-romances,  and 
in   metrical   strength,    poetic   virility,   and 
298 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

compelling  charm  recalls  no  contemporary 
poetry  so  much  as  Browning's  Dramatic 
Lyrics  and  Romances.  Perhaps  the  finest  is 
the  fifth,  the  barbaric  Roumanso  de  Damo 
Guiraudo.  Others  as  notable  and  stirring  are 
Lou  Rei  Reinie  (King  Rene],  La  Roumanso 
de  la  Reino  Jano,  Guihen  de  Cabestang,  the 
pathetic  Blanche  de  Simiane,  and  the  savage 
La  Dama  Tibor — all,  and  The  Lady  Tibor 
in  particular,  strongly  suggestive  of  our  own 
wild  North-Country  ballads,  such  as  Glas- 
gerion,  Bur  A  Helen,  and  the  like.  In  all 
his  poetry,  epical  or  brief  lyrics  or  episodic 
poems,  sonorous  lines  continually  recur,  with 
a  sound  of  the  sea  or  as  of  the  mountain 
wind  : 

Es-ti  la  grando  mar  ?  Es-ti  la  grand  mountagno  ? 
Sari6-ti  lou  mistrau  que  bramo  e  coumbouris  ?  * 

and  lovely  lines,  full  of  aerial  light  and 
sound,  such  as 

Lou  long  salut  que  fan  souto  vdnt  H  piboulo.\ 

In  connection  with  the  success  of  his 
romances  of  The  Terror,  it  may  be  added 
that,  though  the  prose  literature  of  the 

*  "  Is  it  the  great  sea  ?  or  the  voice  of  the  hills 
Or  the  wild  tumult  of  the  mountain- wind  ?  " 
f  "  The  long  swaying  of  a  poplar  to  the  wind." 
299 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

Provengal  revival  cannot  vie  with  that  in 
verse,  it  is  still  remarkable  and  fascinating. 
We  need  allude  only  to  the  most  outstanding 
works,  such  as  the  Contes  Prouvenc.au  of 
Roumanille,  the  brilliant,  vivacious,  and 
highly  flavoured  as  well  as  highly  coloured 
Li  Papalino  (Tales  of  Papal  Avignon)  of 
Felix  Gras,  the  fine  and  austerely  simple 
Memdri  d'un  Gnarro  (Reminiscences  of  a 
Farm-hand)  of  Baptiste  Bonnet,  the  vivid 
Scenes  of  Provencal  Life  of  the  Tou- 
lonaise  Charles  Senes,  and  those  strange, 
bewilderingly  erudite,  flame-coloured,  but 
inartistically  wrought  antique  "  classical  " 
romances  VAgonie  and  Byzance  of  the  poor 
peasant  Jean  Lombard  (whose  early  death  in 
1891  was  practically  due  to  privation  bor- 
dering on  starvation).  As  for  the  larger 
"  world "  which  cannot  read  Prove^al, 
and  has  not  time  or  care  to  look  for  the  less 
eminent  men,  it  can  well  rest  content  with 
the  work  of  the  delicate  genius  who  gave 
to  all  countries  Tartarin,  Numa  Roumestan, 
and  the  Lettres  de  mon  Moulin  ;  with  that 
of  the  exquisite  artist,  Paul  Arene,  whose 
work  is  the  very  essence,  the  very  fragrance, 
of  Provence  ;  and  with  that  of  picturesque 
and  vivid  romancists  such  as  Jean  Aicard. 
One  of  the  most  notable  prose  works  by 
300 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

any  Provencal  writer,  though  dealing  with 
alien  life  and  conditions,  is  the  strangely 
impressive  Fumeurs  d'Opium  of  the  late 
Jules  Boissiere ;  another,  more  recent, 
more  powerful  if  less  rare  in  quality,  less 
subtle  in  style,  is  Louis  Bertrand's  Le  Sang 
des  Races.  Doubtless  all  the  Provencal 
romancists  will  henceforth  write  in  French, 
for  they  are  in  the  same  case  as  the  Welsh- 
born  or  Irish-born  novelists,  who  might 
prefer  to  write,  but  who  cannot  get  pub- 
lished, tales  in  Welsh  or  Irish.  Among 
these  younger  men  the  most  promising  are 
Emmanuel  Delbousquet,  Louis  Bertrand, 
and  Joachim  Gasquet,  the  latter  a  young 
Aixois  who,  besides  having  already  won  high 
distinction  by  his  beautiful  verse  and  the 
range  and  distinction  of  his  prose,  is  achieving 
a  continually  growing  influence  through  his 
able  editing  of  Le  Pays  de  France,  one  of 
the  most  interesting  of  French  monthly 
magazines. 

Another  writer  of  whom  something  should 
be  said,  the  more  as  he  is  in  danger  of  being 
overlooked  by  the  younger  generation  of 
Provencal  students,  is  the  late  Jean-Baptiste 
Gaut,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  sons 
of  Aix,  and  an  influential  member  of  the 
Felibre'en  league.  His  prose  writings — 
301 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

notably  his  Resume  de  I'Histoire  du  Roi 
Rene  and  his  now  rare  Poetes  ei  la  Poesie  de 
Provence — are  as  interesting  as  they  are 
erudite.  His  lyrical  drama  Uno  Court 
d' Amour  was  crowned  at  the  Floral  Fetes 
at  Montpellier  ;  and  his  Lou  Mau  d' Amour 
(Love-Sickness),  produced  in  1881,  has  the 
distinction  of  being  the  first  and  still  the 
best  comic  opera  on  the  Proven9al  stage. 
A  more  noteworthy  dramatic  achievement 
was  his  earlier  drama  in  three  acts,  with 
many  songs,  called  Lei  Mouro  (The  Moors), 
published  about  1875. 

Although  Mistral,  Aubanel,  Gras,  and 
other  Provencal  poets  have  written  sonnets, 
the  sonnet  has  never  taken  a  prominent  place 
in  the  poetic  literature  of  the  Midi,  and  is 
never  a  "  popular,"  always  a  "  literary," 
form.  But  Gaut  has  the  distinction  of  being 
the  Provencal  sonneteer  par  excellence.  His 
Lei  Set  Pecat  Capitau  (The  Seven  Deadly 
Sins)  is  a  notable  collection  ;  and  now  not 
only  the  sonnet  amateur  but  the  literary 
enthusiast  may  consider  himself  lucky  who 
obtains  that  fantastically  delightful  col- 
lection, Sounet,  Souneto  e  Sounaio  (Sonnets, 
Tinkles,  and  Idle  Rhymes),  published  in 
1874,  with  a  "  Sounadisso "  or  sonnet 
preface  by  Mistral,  wherein  the  great  poet 
302 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

half  playfully  appreciates  his  friend's  sin- 
gular qualities — saying,  "  Qu'il  joue  aux 
osselets,  ou  qu'il  chasse  aux  perdreaux, 
ou  que  dans  la  rivi&re  il  fasse  mordre 
quelque  anguille,  un  petit  vent  de  Grece 
agite  son  habit." 

We  have  left  to  the  last  one  of  the  greatest 
of  the  Felibres,  and,  as  we  believe,  one  of 
the  finest  lyric  poets  whom  France  has 
produced,  Theodore  Aubanel.  Aubanel  is 
the  poet  whose  name  above  all  others  in 
Provence  causes  the  chord  of  love  to  thrill 
in  the  hearts  of  the  young.  He  is,  supremely, 
the  poet  of  youth  and  love  and  beauty. 
Throughout  his  writings  we  may  hear  the 
refrain  of  his  lyric  La  Gldri  de  Vau-Cluso  : 

L' Amour  es  la  vido, 
La  vido  es  I 'amour, 

as  throughout  all  his  own  days  he  heard  the 
self -same  song : 

L'amour  nous  convido 
A  cuie  li  flour. 

And  this  for  the  greater  part  sufficed  him  ; 
this  instinct  of  life,  this  passion  for  beauty, 
for  love,  for  the  sunshine  and  the  blithe 
delight  of  spring  and  summer  in  his  beloved 
Provence,  for  "  la  cigalo  di  piboulo.  la 
303 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

bouscarlo  di  bouissoun,  lo  grihet  di  fari- 
goulo,  tout  canto  sa  cansoun."  In  his  glad 
content  with  the  beauty  of  the  world, 
the  world  of  youth  and  love  and  songs, 
he  struck  a  note  which  endeared  him  to 
his  compatriots  : 

Tout  auceloun  amo  sou  nis  : 
Noste  ceu  blu,  noste  terraire 
Soun  p$r  nous-autre  un  paradis.* 

His  posthumous  collection,  Lou  Reire  dou 
Souleu  (idiomatically,  From  Beyond  the 
Grave  ;  poetically,  The  Afterglow'),  is  as  full 
as  his  chef-d'oeuvre,  Li  Fiho  d*Avignoun 
(The  Girls  of  Avignon),  of  that  inspiration 
of  the  country  regions,  di  bastido,  of  which 
he  sang  in  a  little  canticle  for  the  Festo 
Felibren^o  at  Nimes  in  1859  : 

O  muso  di  bastido 
De  siedo  noun  vestido 
E  pamens  tant  poulido, 
Muso  di  Prouvenfau  !  f 

Aubanel's  printed  writings  are  small  in 
quantity.  La  Miougrano  Entre-Duberto 

*  "  Every  little  bird  loves  its  nest.  Our  blue 
sky,  our  little  country,  are  Paradise  for  us." 

T  "  O  muse  of  the  country  places  [lit.   of   the 
farmsteads],   Not  clad   in   silk  art   thou,  Yet  O 
most  fair  to  see,  Muse  of  the  Proven9als !  " 
304 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

(The  Half -open  Pomegranate),  first  privately 
printed  about  1880  (though  written  many 
years  earlier),  and  public  and  complete  only 
in  1888  ;  Li  Fiho  d'Avignoun,  published  the 
year  of  his  death,  1886  ;  and  Lou  Reive 
du  Souleu,  published  in  1900,  though  all  or 
most  of  the  contents  had  already  appeared 
in  periodicals,  represent  his  achievement 
in  lyrical  poetry.  Besides  these  books 
he  wrote  three  dramas  in  Proven9al  verse. 
One  of  these,  the  powerful  and  sombre 
Lou  Pan  dou  Pecat  (The  Bread  of  Sin) 
has  been  published,  and,  in  Paul  Arene's 
somewhat  unsatisfactory  French  version 
in  Alexandrines,  was  acted  in  Paris.  Of 
another  no  trace  has  been  found.  The 
third  and  most  powerful,  Lou  Pastre  (The 
Herdsman), though'kn.ovjn  to  exist  at  the  time 
of  his  death,  is  apparently  also  destroyed 
or  lost.  From  the  little  publicly  known 
of  it,  and  some  fragments  remembered  by 
friends,  it  is  certain  that  The  Herdsman  was 
one  of  the  most  terrible  of  modern  tragedies, 
too  savagely  terrible  perhaps  for  publication 
to-day.  Some  idea  of  it,  though  even  here 
modified,  may  be  gained  from  the  note  about 
Lou  Pastre  in  the  appendix  to  Lou  Reire  dou 
Souteu.  The  only  other  book  of  Aubanel's 
is  the  posthumous  collection  of  his  letters 
ii  305  u 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

to  a  friend,  the  "  Mignon  "  of  his  idealising 
and  romantic  love  for  "a  dear  unknown." 

There  is  perhaps  no  single  book  of  con- 
temporary poetry  so  full  of  the  atmosphere 
as  well  as  the  sound  and  colour  of  beauty 
as  Li  Fiho  d*Avignoun.  In  it  is  one  supreme 
masterpiece  :  "  the  apple  on  the  topmost 
bough  "  of  modern  pagan  poetry.  The  Venus 
of  Aries  is,  in  contemporary  poetry,  what 
the  Venus  of  Milo  is  among  all  the  other 
treasures  of  the  Louvre.  Aubanel's  work  is 
all  of  music,  beauty,  emotion.  His  lyrical 
poems  are  as  full  of  light  and  rippling  sound 
as  an  aspen.  One  could  quote  scores  of  lines 
such  as  this  quatrain  from  the  pathetically 
beautiful  Li  Piboulo  (The  Poplars) : 

Bella  ttio  de  grand  pibo 
Enfioucado  dou  tremount, 
Que  veses  sus  I'autro  ribo  ? 
Que  veses  d'aperamount  ?  * 

Of  his  lovely  Miougrano,  Mistral  truly 
prophesied,  "  Li  grano  di  courau  de  la  Miou- 
grano Entre-Duberto  devendran  en  Prouven£o 
km  capelet  dis  amourous  " — "  The  coral-red 
grains  of  The  Half-open  Pomegranate  will 

*  "  Stately  alley  of  great  poplars,  All  aflame 
with  the  fires  of  sunset — What  see  you,  in  the 
valley,  From  your  swaying  tops,  what  see 
you  ?  " 

306 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

become  throughout  Provence  the  chaplet  of 
lovers."  It  has  all  the  "  sentour  de  Paubespin, 
es  dou9o  emai  amaro  " — "  all  the  fragrance 
of  the  hawthorn,  at  once  sweet  and  bitter." 
New  cadences,  too,  come  into  this  Latin 
poetry,  vaguely  suggestive  of  those  of  Celtic 
music  : 

De-la-man-d'eila  de  lamar, 

Dins  mis  ouro  de  pantaiage, 

Souvtnti-fes  ieu  fau  un  viage, 

leu  fau  souvent  un  viage  amar, 

De-la-man-d'eila  de  la  mar.* 

The  whole  of  the  poem  (No.  xi.  in  The 
Book  of  Love)  is  beautiful  with  its  "  Eilalins  " 
and  "  De-la-man-d'eilas's,"  and  other  melan- 
choly recurrent  cadences,  as,  for  example  : 

D'evso  en  erso,  sus  I'aigo  amaro, 
Coume  un  cadabre  i  mar  jita, 
En  pantai  me  laisse  empourta 
I  ped  d'acquelo  que  mei  caro, 
D'erso  en  erso,  sus  I'aigo  amaro. ,f 

Aubanel  spoke  for  all  Provence  as  well 
as  for  himself  when  he  wrote  :  "La  pouesio 

*  "  To  a  far  land  across  the  sea,  oftentimes  in 
my  dreaming  hours  I  voyage  alone,  a  bitter  voyage 
of  longing  oftentimes  I  make,  to  a  far  land  across 
the  sea." 

|  "  From  hollow  to  hollow,  on  the  salt  wave, 
as  a  body  thrown  upon  the  waters,  in  dreams  I 
let  myself  be  carried  to  the  feet  of  her  I  love  : 
From  hollow  to  hollow,  on  the  salt  wave." 

307 


The  Modern  Troubadours 

es  lou  souleu,  lou  souleu  di  jouine  e  di 
fort  e  di  beu  " — "  Poetry  is  the  sun,  the  sun 
of  the  young  and  the  strong  and  the  beau- 
tiful." He  sang  for  all  poets  when  he  shaped 
in  music  his  own  device,  "  Quau  canto  soun 
mau  encanto." 

And,  for  him,  as  for  many  another 
beautiful  singer  of  human  love  and  loss, 
an  earlier  writer  long  ago  said  "  the  deep 
word  "  : 

Quia  sine  dolore  non  vivitur  in  amove. 

Let  us  take  leave  of  Aubanel,  and  with 
him  of  the  singers  of  modern  Provence, 
in  fitting  words  of  his  own,  uttered  in  one 
of  his  poems  to  his  "  Laura,"  his  "  Beatrice  "  : 

Dins  lou  vaste  camin  dis  astre  barrulant  canto  dins 
la  joio.* 

If  there  be  that  immortality  also  for  the 
poet,  none  worthier  than  Theodore  Aubanel 
could  enter  upon  it.  "  We  are  two  comrade 
stars,"  said  Mistral  prophetically.  And  truly 
both  are  of  the  company  of  "  Adonais,"  "  e 
chi  lo  scrisse." 

*  "  On  the  vast  road  of  the  wandering  stars  he 
sings  in  joy." 


308 


SOME  DRAMAS  OF  GABRIELE 
D'ANNUNZIO 

(1900) 

WHEN  we  consider  the  dramatic  work  of 
Gabriele  D'Annunzio  we  find  that  three 
long  plays  have  been  published,  La  Citta 
Morta,  La  Gioconda,  and  La  Gloria  ;  that 
two  shorter  plays,  Sogno  d'un  Tramonto 
d'Autunno  and  Sogno  d'un  Mattino  di 
Primavera,  have  been  issued  as  booklets  ; 
and  that  the  author  is  now  at  work  on  his 
trilogy,  UAlessandreide. 

Of  the  published  dramas  only  the  first  is 
well  known  here,  though  since  Eleonora 
Duse's  magnificent  acting  of  La  Gioconda 
in  London  that  play  also  is  familiar  to 
many  who  understand  Italian.  Even  in 
France,  where  D'Annunzio's  work  is  fol- 
lowed with  much  interest  and  close  atten- 
tion, La  Gloria  is  all  but  unknown  :  in 
Italy  itself  it  has  fascinated  the  few,  not 
the  many.  One  reason,  obvious  reason,  for 
309 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

this  is,  that  of  the  plays  La  Cittd  Morta 
alone  has  been  translated  into  French  and 
into  English. 

To  understand  the  complex  genius  and 
Graeco  -  Latin  temperament  of  Gabriele 
D'Annunzio,  one  unacquainted  with  his 
writings  could  perhaps  in  no  way  gain  so 
swift  an  insight  as  to  read  these  two  short 
plays,  the  Sogno  d'un  Tramonto  cFAutunno 
and  Sogno  d'un  Mattino  di  Primavera.  The 
one,  violent,  fevered,  intoxicated  with  colour, 
convulsed  with  the  very  hysteria  of  passion, 
is  wrought,  as  it  were,  in  blood-red  clay  ; 
the  other,  hushed,  delicate,  beautiful,  exqui- 
site in  its  very  morbidity,  intensely  rather 
than  overwhelmingly  tragic,  is  wrought  in 
ivory  and  emerald  :  the  one  is  a  resplendent 
nightmare,  the  other  a  tragic  but  beautiful 
dream.  In  both  the  same  genius  reveals 
itself,  in  each  the  extraordinarily  marked 
dual  temperament  is  found  at  the  extreme. 
If  there  is  no  one  scene  in  D'Annunzio's 
plays  so  beautiful  as  that  in  La  Gioconda, 
where  la  Sirenetta,  a  mysterious  child  born 
of  the  wind,  sun,  and  sea,  unwittingly 
tortures  Silvia  Settala  in  her  bitter  grief 
and  mutilated  beauty,  and  where,  when 
the  lovely  sea -girl  says  she  would  offer  the 
poor,  desolate,  mutilated  woman  her  own 
310 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

hands  were  they  not  so  brown  and  rough, 
Silvia  answers  : 

Sono  felici  le  tue  mani  :  toccano  le  foglie, 
i  fiori,  1'arena,  1'acqua,  le  pietri,  i  fanciulli,  gli 
animali,  tutte  le  cose  innocenti. 

("  Ah,  these  happy  hands  of  yours — they  can 
touch  the  leaves  and  flowers,  the  earth  and  water 
and  stones,  little  children,  all  innocent  creatures.") 

— if,  as  I  think,  there  is  no  scene  so  poig- 
nantly beautiful  as  this,  neither  is  there, 
I  think,  any  succession  of  scenes  or  any  one 
play  so  beautiful  as  the  Dream  of  a  Spring 
Morning.  Again,  there  is  nowhere  in 
D'Annunzio's  dramas  or  romances  so  extreme 
a  presentment  of  the  sensuously  hysterical 
side  of  his  nature — the  side  that  in  that 
wonderful  book,  //  Trionfo  delta  Morte, 
permitted  him  to  sink  to  the  grossest 
banalities,  to  a  dithyrambic  satyr  iasis, 
where  the  power  and  beauty  of  the  with- 
held while  revealed  are  set  aside  for  the 
poor  audacity  of  the  explicit — nowhere  so 
extreme  a  presentment  in  this  kind,  though 
without  any  suggestion  of  Zolaesque 
"realism,"  as  in  the  Dream  of  an  Autumn 
Sunset. 

I  am  not  certain  as  to  the  order  in  which 
D'Annunzio's  plays  were  written,  but  in 
publication  the  Dream  of  a  Spring  Morning 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

comes  first.  Certainly  it  was  written  not 
later  than  early  in  1897.  Then  La  Cittd 
Morta  came,  1898 ;  and  thereafter  were 
published  the  Dream  of  an  Autumn  Sunset, 
early  in  1899  ;  La  Gioconda,  1899  ;  and  La 
Gloria  in  1900.  The  actual  date  of  com- 
position of  the  remarkable  play  La  Gloria 
is  February-March  of  1899,  written  "  ai 
cipressi  di  Mamalus." 

Although  so  unique  a  literary  tempera- 
ment, so  individual  a  master  in  style, 
D'Annunzio  has  been  influenced  formatively 
by  at  least  one  modern  writer,  Maurice 
Maeterlinck.  It  is  seen  not  only  in  the 
occasional  Maeterlinckian  convention  of 
phrase  and  repetitive  effect,  but  even  in 
construction.  Generally  this  likeness  is 
mere  similarity,  but  sometimes  is  recog- 
nisable, as  where  in  the  opening  scene  of 
the  fourth  act  of  Gioconda  la  Sirenetta 
comes  shyly  upon  Silvia  : 

LA  SIRENETTA.  Miriconosci  ?  .  .  .  Miriconosci, 
signora  bella  ? 

SILVIA.     Ti  riconosco,  ti  riconosco. 
LA  SIRENETTA.    Ma  riconosci  ? 

One   marked  instance   of  constructional 

influence  is  in  La  Gloria,  where  the  second 

act  opens  with  a  scene  which,  distinct    in 

detail  as  it  is,   is  yet  so  much  at  one  in 

312 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D^Annunzio 

kind  that  one  cannot  but  believe  it  to  be, 
if  not  inspired,  at  least  influenced  by 
Ulnterieur.  The  scene  represents  a  room 
hung  with  crimson  brocade,  with  two  doors, 
each  with  a  heavy  portiere,  one  withdrawn. 
The  room  is  filled  with  friends,  partisans, 
old  adherents  of  Cesare  Bronte,  who  lies 
at  death's  door  in  the  inner  room,  "  the 
solemn  anticipation  of  immense  catastrophe  " 
going  from  one  to  one  of  this  expectant 
group  of  watchers. 

ONE.     Well,  has  the  death-agony  begun  ? 

ANOTHER.     Is  there  no  hope  ? 

ANOTHER.     Will  he  live  till  dawn  ? 

SEVERAL  (at  once}.  We  want  to  see  him  .  .  . 
we  want  to  see  him  ! 

ONE.     Silence  !  .  .  .  Don't  raise  your  voices. 

ANOTHER.     No  one  may  go  in.  .  .  . 

ANOTHER.     He  will  see  no  one. 

ANOTHER.  He  will  see  no  one  whomsoever  .  .  . 
not  even  the  doctors. 

ANOTHER.     He  has  sent  away  the  doctors.  .  .  . 

In  the  mass  of  D'Annunzio's  dramatic 
work,  however,  these  are,  as  I  have  said, 
but  occasional  echoes.  Echoes  do  not 
detract  from  the  individuality  of  an  original 
writer  :  on  the  contrary,  they  afford  an 
added  interest,  showing  as  they  do  where 
one  original  mind  has  been  influenced  by 
another  original  mind,  and  where  what  has 
313 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

been  tried  with  effect  by  one  is  tried  newly 
with  new  effect  by  another. 

The  Dream  of  a  Morning  in  Spring  (Sogno 
(Tun  Mattino  di  Primavera)  is  a  long  one- 
act  play  in  five  scenes.  The  story  is  an 
episode  likely  found  in,  or  suggested  by, 
mediaeval  Italian  chronicles.  The  action  of 
the  drama  is  subsequent  to  the  tragic  ending 
of  the  love  of  Giuliano  and  Isabella,  as 
tragic  and  sudden  as  that  which  came  upon 
Paolo  and  Francesca  ;  but  more  terrible, 
because  of  the  appalling  disclosure  of  blind 
human  helplessness  in  sleep.  We  learn, 
not  all  at  once,  that  the  two  beautiful 
sisters,  the  Duchess  Isabella  and  Beatrice, 
lived  at  Poggio-Gherardi ;  that  Isabella 
came  to  love  Giuliano,  a  handsome  young 
lord  of  Fontelucente  (a  principality  or 
seigneury  as  vague  as  "  PArmiranda,"  the 
"  old  Tuscan  town  ") ;  and  that  Beatrice 
secretly  loves  his  brother  Virginio ;  that  il 
Duca  learned  the  truth,  and  one  night 
returned  to  Poggio-Gherardi,  or  came  sud- 
denly upon  Giuliano  and  Isabella  as  they 
lay  asleep  in  her  bed-chamber,  and  silently 
thrust  his  long  poniard  through  Giuliano's 
heart  ;  that  Isabella  awoke,  perhaps  in 
time  to  see  the  sinister  face  behind  her 
lover's  fallen  head,  and  certainly  in  time 
314 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

to  be  "  inundated  "  in  his  life-blood,  and 
lay  silent  and  motionless  all  night,  holding 
her  dead  lover  to  her  breast,  till,  at  dawn, 
her  women  found  her  death-white,  mutter- 
ing, in  still  and  awful  madness.  Thereafter, 
we  infer,  Isabella  has  been  sent  to  the  ducal 
retreat  at  l'Armiranda,  to  be  tended  by 
Teodata  and  a  physician.  The  drama-motive 
is  the  unfolding  of  her  madness  in  exquisite 
and  unforgettably  beautiful  fantasy  ;  in  the 
effort  of  the  physician  to  cure,  or  at  least 
to  alleviate,  her  mental  suffering  ;  in  the 
sudden  and  perturbing  appearance  of  the 
dead  man's  brother,  Virginio  ;  in  the  half- 
uncertain,  half-suggested  love  of  Virginio 
and  Beatrice,  or  at  least  of  hers  for  him  ; 
in  the  all  but  successful  healing  through  a 
wonderful  identification  of  Isabella  with 
"  the  green  life  "  of  the  forest,  and  in  the 
sudden  and  final  relapse.  From  first  to 
last  there  is  a  terror  lest  a  spot  of  red  be 
seen.  No  scarlet  or  ruddy  flower  or  blossom 
is  allowed  in  the  garden  or  wood  ;  nothing 
that  can  suggest  blood — the  blood  of 
Giuliano.  The  reader  trembles  when  a 
thorn  pricks  Isabella's  white  arm,  and  a  red 
bead  of  blood  catches  her  startled,  remem- 
bering eyes  ;  instinctively  starts,  perhaps, 
when  a  scarlet  ladybird  alights  on  her  white 
315 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

robe,  moving  like  a  trickling  drop.  Through 
scenes  of  poignant  pathos  and  beauty  the 
play  moves  till  the  fantastic,  unreal,  but 
strangely  fascinating  figure  of  Virginio 
comes  upon  the  stage.  This  creature  of 
the  woods — for  he  is  this,  more  than  human 
— is  akin  to  Goethe's  Euphorion,  to  the 
Faun  in  Transformation,  to  the  figure  kneel- 
ing by  Procris  in  Piero  da  Cosimo's  familiar 
picture,  to  D'Annunzio's  own  "  Sirenetta  " 
in  La  Gioconda.  In  Virginio  and  in  La 
Sirenetta  I  do  think  that  while  D'Annunzio 
may  consciously  be  the  symbolist,  uncon- 
sciously or  consciously  he  is  following  the 
same  instinct  of  the  Renaissance  artists 
(with  whom  he  has  so  much  in  common) 
as  made  them — say  Giovanni  Bazzi,  or 
Piero  da  Cosimo,  both  so  typical — introduce 
into  their  pictures  pagan  or  mythological 
figures,  fauns,  satyrs,  and  the  like,  some- 
times with  a  definite  significance,  sometimes 
because  of  their  strange  beauty  only,  their 
obsession  of  more  than  half  pagan  minds. 
Nevertheless,  la  Sirenetta  may  be  intended 
as  a  symbol  of  innocent  and  beautiful 
young  life,  and  Virginio  as  a  symbol  of 
remote  youth — not  as  commonly  understood, 
not  as  the  youth  of  men  now,  but  as  the 
primitive  youth  of  man,  whose  mother  is 
316 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

Nature.  Perhaps  it  will  be  easier  for  the 
reader  to  understand  something  of  the  vague, 
yet  significant  charm  of  Virginio  if  I  add 
that  he  suggests  kinship  with  the  central 
figure  in  Pater's  Apollo  in  Picardy,  or  that 
in  Denys  VAuxerrois. 

An  undramatic  drama  :  a  morbid  motive, 
morbidly  worked  out — that,  doubtless,  is 
what  some  readers  will  think  of  the  Sogno 
d1un  Mattino  di  Primavera.  But  the  play 
moves ;  scene  unfolds  naturally  out  of 
scene ;  there  is  no  disenchantment  by 
ill-timed  lapse  or  break.  As  in  all 
D'Annunzio's,  as  in  all  Italian,  drama, 
there  is  too  much  and  too  lengthy  mono- 
logue. The  desert -reminiscences  in  La  Gio- 
conda,  for  example,  would  hardly  be  tolerated 
on  the  English  stage.  But  in  beauty  there 
is,  perhaps,  nothing  else  in  its  kind  that 
that  can  be  compared  with  this  play  ;  I 
find  no  words  adequate.  Is  there  any  living 
dramatist  who  could  depict  Isabella  and  her 
oneness  with  the  "  green  life  "  of  the  woods 
as  D'Annunzio  has  done  ?  Even  in  a  frag- 
ment, and  that  a  translation,  something  of 
this  is  evident  : 

ISABELLA.  Yes — yes — the  horse  neighs  behind 
them,  while  they  wander  on. — Look,  look,  doctor  ; 
are  not  Isabella  and  the  fruit-tree  one  and  the 

317 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

same  ?  [She  moves  swiftly  to  the  sunlit  orange- 
tree,  and  buries  her  head  among  its  green  foliage. 
Looking  towards  the  old  man,  and  holding  with 
each  hand  the  pliant  ends  of  two  branches,  she 
crosses  and  winds  them  about  her  neck  and  shoulders, 
remaining  thus,  mixed  with  the  foliage  as  though 
part  of  it,  her  face  half  covered  by  the  green  leaves. 
Her  long  sleeves  are  fallen  back  on  her  shoulders, 
and  leave  her  white  arms  bare.] 

THE  DOCTOR.     Yes,  one  and  the  same  thing. 

ISABELLA.  I  see  green — as  if  the  pupils  of 
my  eyes  were  two  transparent  leaves.  The  little 
nerves  of  the  leaves  are  luminous  against  the 
sunlight.  .  .  .  Oh,  a  little  leaf  lapping  !  How 
luminous  it  is — and  soft  as  wax — as  though  it 
would  melt  in  my  breath.  How  tender  it  is  ! 
How  sweet  it  is  !  ...  Make  me  a  green  robe, 
of  tender  green,  so  that  the  little  new  leaves 
will  have  no  fear  of  me  when  I  move  among  them. 
.  .  i  I  am  not  Isabella  :  I  am  no  more  Isabella  : 
the  green  things  have  taken  me  to  themselves  : 
I  am  one  of  them,  I  am  one  of  them,  one  and  the 
same  thing. 

In  her  lovely  helplessness  Isabella  recalls 
Melisande  and  Selysette.  There  is,  too,  in 
D'Annunzio's  play,  as  in  Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande,  a  significant  ignoring  or  a  blindness 
to  the  culpability  of  the  beautiful  forlorn 
transgressor.  Melisande  is  as  a  little  child 
baffled  by  winds  of  unknown  and  obscure 
forces ;  Isabella  has  no  thought,  nor  has 
her  sister  or  Teodata,  or  the  old  Doctor, 
that  she  was  taken  in  her  sin,  the  sweet, 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

puzzled  sin  of  youth.  To  all  she  is  simply 
beautiful  and  unfortunate  ;  no  other  senti- 
ment is  ever  dreamed  of  than  pity  for 
her,  regret  for  the  slain  youth  of  the  lover, 
a  wordless  resentment  against  the  sinister 
slayer,  whose  action  yet  seems  to  all  too 
natural,  too  inevitable,  to  arraign. 

When  the  play  ends  (and  D'Annunzio 
uses  repetitive  "decoration"  as  Maeter- 
linck does,  to  enhance  impression — e.g.,  the 
reiterated  "  Profound  silence,  interrupted 
only  by  the  cries  of  swallows,  the  tumultu- 
ous hum  of  bees,  a  rising  and  falling  breath 
of  wind  ")  a  final  cloud  has  come  upon  the 
mind  of  Isabella.  The  last  we  see  of  her  is 
as  she  stands  slowly  letting  fall  soft  blossoms 
over  her  hair,  cheeks,  lips,  hands,  remember- 
ing nothing  now ;  stooping  to  the  fallen 
garland  which  had  meant  so  much,  lifting 
it,  looking  at  it  idly,  and  with  a  faint 
child-like  smile  murmuring  bewilderedly, 
"  Per  una  ghirlandetta" 

The  Dream  of  a  Spring  Morning  is  not 
like  any  play  by  Maeterlinck,  yet,  but  for 
the  wandering  fire  of  his  genius,  I  do  not 
think  it  would  have  been  written.  It  is,  in 
Italian  literature,  what  Pelleas  et  Melisande 
is  in  literature  written  in  French.  Nothing 
so  piteous,  so  beautiful,  so  delicate,  so 
319 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

poignantly  unforgettable,  exists  in  modern 
Italian. 

There  can  be  no  question,  however,  of 
how  little  of  Maeterlinck  and  of  how  much 
of  D'Annunzio  is  in  the  Dream  of  an  Autumn 
Sunset.  Here  are  no  reserve,  no  delicacy, 
no  nuance,  no  vague  or  deep  symbolism, 
but  fierce  colour,  crude  emotions,  barbaric 
cries  and  instincts,  a  "Venetian  splendour  " 
become  a  debauch,  an  atmosphere  intoler- 
ably surcharged  with  passion  that  is  a  rather 
savage  hysteria,  an  inchoate  panorama  of 
distorted  images,  a  wild  pele-mele  of  gorgeous 
barges,  torch -lit  gondolas,  flitting  figures; 
nude  courtesans,  lawless  passions,  cunning 
magicians,  and,  through  all,  the  insane 
dementia  of  the  woman  Gradeniga,  la 
Dogaressa. 

This  play  is  shorter  than  the  Spring 
Morning ;  is  not  subdivided  into  scenes, 
and  the  dramatic  action  centres  on  "la 
Gradeniga,"  the  Dogaressa.  The  woman 
Pentella,  the  women  spies  Lucrezia,  Caterina, 
Ordella,  Nerissa,  and  the  Slavonian  sorceress, 
are  mere  stage  puppets.  The  story  may  or 
may  not  be  historical  or  have  an  historical 
basis  ;  it  is  Annunzio's  here,  and  no  other's. 
The  drama  unfolds  itself  "  at  the  domain 
of  a  patrician  of  Venice,  on  the  bank  of  the 
320 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Anaunzio 

Brenta,  bequeathed  by  one  of  the  doges 
to  his  Most  Serene  widow,  now  living  here 
in  exile."  It  opens  as  "  the  autumnal  day  is 
ending  in  beauty  at  once  rich  and  sad." 
D'Annunzio  describes  the  setting  of  his 
scene  with  an  opulence  of  detail  which 
pertains  to  the  romancist  rather  than  to  the 
dramatist ;  it  is  all  very  wonderful,  very 
picturesque,  very  decadent ;  from  the  vivid 
purple  and  saffron  colours  in  the  sky,  to 
' '  the  marvellous  aerial  stairway  crowned  with 
a  loggia  whence  one  can  see  the  garden,  the 
Brenta,  and  the  distant  country  "  ;  from 
an  equally  wonderful  "  atrium "  to  iron 
railings  "  like  those  which  surround  the 
tombs  of  the  Scaliger  at  Verona  "  (as  the 
marble  circular  stairway  is  like  that  of  "  the 
Venetian  palace  called  '  del  Bovolo  '  in  the 
Court  of  the  Contrarini  ") ;  from  pilasters 
on  which  are  fixed  the  great  golden  fans 
erected  at  the  prows  of  galleys,  to  the  garden 
itself,  vast,  pathwayed,  showing  now  a  mass 
of  discoloured  leaves,  ruinous  flowers,  over- 
ripe fruit,  "  a  garden  leaning  towards  the 
waters  of  the  Brenta  with  the  abandon  of  a 
voluptuous  and  languid  creature,  lying  by 
a  mirror  wherein  she  contemplates  the  last 
splendour  of  her  decaying  beauty  !  "  Vast, 
moveless  clouds,  shining  in  amber  and  pale 
n  321  x 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

gold,  are  suspended  in  the  north,  some 
resting  seemingly  on  the  domed  summits 
of  the  pines,  some  pierced  by  the  shafts  of 
sombre  cypresses. 

From  the  first  moment  the  Dogaressa  is 
repellent.  She  is  infatuated  with  a  lover 
far  younger  than  herself,  who,  weary  of 
her,  is  about  to  yield  an  open  triumph  to 
a  dreaded  rival,  a  beautiful  courtesan  of 
Venice. 

It  is  needless  to  follow  this  play  in  detail. 
It  is  an  hysterical  screech  throughout, 
alleviated  by  a  few  lovely  images,  pictorial 
"  asides,"  passages  of  malign  beauty.  A 
sorceress  arrives  ;  the  Dogaressa 's  women 
come  back  with  maddening  reports  of  what 
they  have  seen,  of  Panthea  white  and 
beautiful  upon  the  Bucentaur,  of  her  lover 
laughing  at  her  feet,  of  the  great  festal 
procession  of  the  barges  and  galleys  ;  of 
the  extraordinary  love-chase  of  the  nude 
Panthea  by  her  baffled  lover,  in  face  of  the 
multitude  in  the  galleys.  Then  as  night 
falls,  and  the  incantations  of  the  sorceress 
arise,  a  sudden  conflagration  startles  all, 
and  a  tumult  breaks  out.  Fierce  strife  has 
begun  among  rival  factions  at  the  water- 
festival,  and,  before  long,  the  Bucentaur 
is  suddenly  in  flames.  The  women  in  the 
322 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

garden  hurry  to  and  fro  with  torches,  and 
two  of  them  suddenly  run  forward,  crying 
the  wild  tidings  : 

BARBARA.     Panthea  is  in  the  flames ! 

ORDELLA.     Panthea  is  in  the  flames  ! 

[The  DOGARESSA  bounds  impetuously  to  her  feet, 
and  casts  the  mutilated  waxen  image  from  her  and 
lets  it  fall,  unheeded  now,  to  the  ground.] 

BARBARA  [hurrying  breathlessly].  Panthea 
burns  !  The  Bucentaur  is  on  fire  !  Swords  flash 
everywhere  ! 

ORDELLA  [half  suffocated  with  anguish  of  fear]. 
The  Bucentaur  is  on  fire,  and  the  flames  enwrap 
the  courtesan  and  every  one  !  ...  It  sails  up 
the  Brenta  ...  it  is  close  to  us  now  ! 

BARBARA.  A  battle,  Serenissima,  a  battle  is 
being  fought — all  are  mad  with  fury — every 
barge  is  attacked — blood  runs — it  is  a  carnage  .... 
They  come  nearer — here  they  come.  Hark  !  Hark  ! 

[The  tumult  grows,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  : 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  the  blood-red  reflection 
of  the  burning  Bucentaur  flames  through  the  dusk. 
Mad  with  grief  and  terror,  the  DOGARESSA  throws 
herself  towards  the  spiral  stairway  of  the  tower. 
The  SORCERESS  lifts  the  fallen,  pin-pierced  waxen 
image,  and  deposits  it  at  the  feet  of  the  bronze 
Venus.] 

PENTELLA  [from  the  summit  of  the  spiral  marble 
staircase].  The  fire  !  The  fire  !  It  is  beneath  me  ! 
It  is  the  Bucentaur — with  Panthea  burned — covered 
with  burning  bodies.  The  battle  rages  still — 
swords  flash — a  myriad  swords — fire  and  blood  ! 

[The  DOGARESSA,  unable  to  move,  leans  helplessly 
on  the  balustrade,  mute,  mad  with  grief  and  terror, 

323 


Some  Dramas  of  Gdbnele  D'Annunzio 

while  the  garden  is  now  aflame  with  the  burning 
Bucentaur  and  echoing  with  the  savage  cries  of  the 
combatants  :  "  Panthea  ! — Panthea  / — Panthea  I "] 

And  so  this  orgy  of  blood,  fire,  and 
horror  comes  to  an  end.  We  have  the 
dramatist's  "  direction  "  at  the  last  that 
the  livid  and  despairing  face  of  the  Doga- 
ressa  is  lit  as  with  "  a  bloody  reverberation  " 
of  what  is  happening,  "and  expresses  all  the 
grandeur  and  all  the  beauty  of  the  tragic 
scene."  Alas,  we  cannot  but  think  of  her 
as  a  horrible  and  degraded  madwoman; 
of  the  other  personages  as  pantomimic 
maniacs  ;  and  of  the  whole  play  as — to 
repeat  words  just  written — an  orgy  of  blood, 
fire,  and  horror — an  orgy  of  lust,  super- 
stition, and  the  putrescent  splendour  of  an 
insane  vision. 

In  these  two  short  plays,  then,  as  I  have 
already  said,  we  have  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 
at  two  extremes.  His  maturer  work  is 
neither  so  poignantly  beautiful  as  the  story 
of  the  Duchess  Isabella,  nor  so  luridly 
sensuous  and  offensive  as  that  of  the 
Dogaressa  Gradeniga,  but  partakes  of  the 
dominant  quality  of  each.  There  is  evi- 
dence of  a  morbid,  occasionally  almost  an 
insane  imagination,  in  La  Citta  Morta  and 
La  Gioconda,  which  reminds  us  of  the 
324 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

author  of  //  Sogno  d'un  Tramonto  d'Autunno  ; 
but  in  La  Gioconda  there  are  passages  and 
one  or  two  scenes,  and  many  pages  and 
scene  after  scene  in  The  Dead  City,  of  a 
beauty  so  incomparable  that  we  know  no 
other  could  have  written  them  but  the  author 
of  II  Sogno  d'un  Mattino  di  Primavera. 

La  Gioconda  is  the  only  play  by  Gabriele 
D'Annunzio  which  has  been  performed  in 
this  country.  But  for  the  spell  of  the  name 
of  Eleanora  Duse,  but  for  her  genius,  it 
could  hardly  have  won  the  startled  atten- 
tion of  an  English  audience.  The  drama  of 
art  is  the  very  last  kind  of  dramatic  art  to 
appeal  to  the  general  public  here.  French 
wit  and  buffoonery,  German  domesticity 
and  farce,  these  can  be  and  are  commonly 
welcome  ;  but  the  play  which  turns  upon 
a  complex  problem  of  art  has  little  chance 
of  tolerance  except  from  a  few.  It  is  easy 
to  say,  as  most  critics  said  and  many  visitors 
appear  to  have  said,  that  Lucio  Settala  the 
sculptor  is  simply  a  libertine,  with  (some 
add)  the  special  licence  of  the  artistic  tem- 
perament. There  is  no  such  licence  ;  and 
with  too  many  people  "  the  artistic  tem- 
perament "  is  simply  a  euphemism  for  selfish 
weakness.  On  the  other  hand,  the  shape 
and  colour,  the  growth,  the  idiosyncrasy, 
325 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

the  need  of  the  creative  nature  (a  rare 
and  peculiar  thing,  not  for  a  moment  to 
be  confused  with  "  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment," which,  as  an  American  humorist 
says,  is  as  common  and  disagreeable  as 
measles),  is  generally  neither  understood 
nor  sympathised  with.  La  Gioconda,  which 
phrase  by  phrase,  page  by  page,  moves  in 
a  procession  of  delicate  words  and  lovely 
images,  has,  in  Italy,  been  hailed  by  the 
best  judges  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  remarkable  plays  of  the  modern  Italian 
drama.  "  Cosa  bella  mortal  passa,  e  non 
d'arte  "  ;  and  La  Gioconda  will  be  remem- 
bered when  its  detractors,  who  pronounced 
it  morbidly  full  of  horrors  and  mutilation, 
have  long  been  silent. 

I  had  meant  to  devote  much  space  to 
La  Citta  Morta,  as  the  most  beautiful  of 
D'Annunzio's  plays,  but  there  is  not  now 
the  same  need  for  this  since  the  recent 
publication  of  The  Dead  City,  an  admirable 
translation  by  Mr.  Arthur  Symons.  There 
is  nothing  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio's  which 
has  been  more  discussed  than  this  remark- 
able play  ;  it  is  at  once  the  most  perfect  of 
his  writings  and  that  which  has  given  the 
greatest  cause  of  offence.  To  some  it  is 
one  of  the  most  essentially  dramatic  plays 
326 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

of  our  time ;  to  others  it  is  merely  an 
unpleasant  attempt  along  a  line  ventured 
upon  by  few  modern  dramatists  since 
Shelley  wrote  The  Cenci.  It  may  be  said 
at  once  that  if  one  miss  the  central  idea  in 
The  Dead  City  the  play  must  seem  little 
less  than  revolting  ;  for  we  have  here  an 
instance  of  the  overwhelming  power  of  a 
supremely  dramatic  idea  to  transform  what 
is  ordinarily  beyond  the  scope  of  art  into 
what  is  convincingly  a  subject  for  art.  If 
one  can  admit  the  spiritual  or  psychological 
power  of  evil  of  an  abstract  idea,  then  there 
is  no  difficulty  in  understanding  the  tragic 
circumstance  upon  which  this  drama  turns. 
In  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  in  Ford's  well- 
known  play,  in  one  or  two  other  dramas 
and  romances,  the  illicit  love  of  brother  and 
sister  has  been  the  central  motive.  Perhaps 
the  most  potent  reason  for  the  common 
refusal  to  accept  even  these  first -named 
writings  as  works  of  true  art  is  not  their 
subject  so  much  as  the  lack  of  any  suffi- 
ciently strong  and  convincingly  fundamental 
idea  to  justify  that  choice  in  subject.  This, 
at  least,  cannot  be  urged  against  The  Dead 
City.  The  group  of  four  people — it  must 
be  admitted,  all  "  predisposed,"  as  Nordau 
would  say — fulfil  the  drama  of  their  strange, 
327 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriels  D'Annunzio 

passionate,  in  a  sense  demented  lives  near 
and  among  the  ruins  of  Mycenae,  where 
"  Leonardo "  is  searching  for  the  ages- 
long  interred  bodies  of  the  Atridae  and 
Cassandra.  That  ancient  terrible  crime, 
whose  tragic  story  in  Greek  drama  is  still 
the  most  appalling  in  art,  throws  its  sinister 
light  on  all.  As  in  the  A  ntigone  of  Sophocles, 
so  too  in  La  Citta  Morta  we  feel  that  "  Fate 
works  Her  own  dread  work,"  that  "  there  is 
no  saviour  from  appointed  woe,"  and  that 
from  overhead,  from  around,  from  beneath, 
"intolerable  destiny"  fulfils  itself  in  terror 
and  beauty — a  beauty  almost  more  unen- 
durable than  the  sombre  terror  itself.  No 
one  of  the  four  characters  of  the  play 
knows  what  dreadful  ill  is  being  engendered 
in  the  crime-impregnated  soil  of  the  tombs 
of  the  Atridae.  All  are  caught  in  that  evil, 
as  strayed  birds  in  a  net. 

Here  is  at  once  the  strength  and  weak- 
ness of  La  Citta  Morta.  It  has  a  motive  of 
supreme  tragedy,  it  has  the  soul  of  a  tragic 
and  terrible  idea.  But,  also,  it  has  that 
fatal  weakness  in  the  treatment  of  "  inevit- 
able fate  "  which  distinguishes  the  modern 
dramatist.  This  is  a  weakness  we  never 
find  in  ^Eschylus  or  Sophocles,  whose  men 
and  woman  do  not  relinquish  all  at  the 
328 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

mere  shadow  of  a  passing  fatality,  but  are, 
in  the  end,  overcome  by  an  inscrutable 
and  irresistible  Destiny,  struggled  against 
to  the  last  for  all  its  inscrutable  resistless- 
ness.  We  cannot  but  feel  that  the  four 
persons  in  The  Dead  City,  as  so  many  of 
the  persons  in  D'Annunzio's  dramas  and 
romances,  are  what  they  are,  not  because 
this  is  what  they  must  be,  but  because  this  is 
what  they  have  made  themselves,  or  allow 
themselves  to  remain,  or  imagine  themselves. 
I  need  not  here  go  into  the  details  of  the 
working  out  of  the  terrible  tragedy  of  La 
Citta  Morta.  Now  that  we  have  an  English 
version  so  admirable  as  that  of  Arthur 
Symons,  The  Dead  City  is  attainable  by  any 
one  who  cares  to  read  it.  It  has  so  much 
beauty  that  one  can  read  and  re-read  with 
an  instant  pleasure  ;  but  even  this  continual 
beauty  is  sometimes  at  the  verge  of  sanity, 
as  (when  not  over  it)  are  the  four  persons 
who  enact  "this  bitter  theme."  In  its 
extraordinary  subtlety,  much  of  the  play  is 
purely  literary,  not  dramatic,  to  make  a 
present  distinction.  Even  in  "  the  other 
world  "  of  romance  men  and  women  do  not 
talk  thus  : 

ALESSANDRO.     I   have  met  you  in    dreams  as 
now  I  meet  you  in  life.     You  belong  to  me  as  if 

329 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

you  were  my  creation,  formed  of  my  hands, 
inspired  by  my  breath.  Your  face  is  beautiful 
in  me  as  a  thought  in  me  is  beautiful.  When 
your  eyelids  quiver  it  seems  to  me  that  they 
quiver  like  my  blood,  and  that  the  shadow  of 
your  eyelashes  touches  the  root  of  my  heart. 


BIANCA  MARIA.  You  exalt  with  your  breath 
the  humblest  of  creatures.  I  have  been  only  a 
good  sister. 

ALESSANDRO.  .  .  .  Wherever  there  was  a  trace 
of  the  great  myths  or  a  fragment  of  the  imaginings 
of  beauty  with  which  the  chosen  race  transfigures 
the  force  of  the  world,  she  passed  with  her  reviving 
grace,  passing  lightly  over  the  distance  of  centuries 
as  if  she  followed  the  song  of  the  nightingale  across 
a  country  strewn  with  ruins. 

The  Dead  City  stands  alone  among  recent 
dramatic  literature  for  beauty  of  phrase 
and  workmanship.  On  every  page,  almost, 
one  may  hold  festival.  But  to  say  this  is 
one  thing  :  to  say  that  it  is  also  a  great 
drama  is  another.  For  one,  I  consider  it 
to  be  of  the  most  memorable  and  significant 
dramas  I  have  read,  the  most  memorable 
perhaps,  the  most  significant ;  but  that,  it 
may  be,  is  because  with  some  of  us  the  power 
of  the  idea  is  greater  than  the  power  of  all 
but  the  supreme  expression  of  an  idea. 
One  obvious  objection  to  La  Citta  Morta 
is  its  extreme,  its  omnipresent,  morbidity. 
330 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabnele  D'Annunzio 

Everybody  is  morbid ;  the  play  is  the  last 
word  of  the  decadent  exalted  in  the  pride 
of  a  decadence  already  moribund. 

In  La  Gloria,  as  already  hinted,  we  have 
at  once  the  least  known  and  the  most  ambi- 
tious of  D'Annunzio's  plays  ;  longer  than 
La  Gioconda,  longer  perhaps  than  La  Cittd 
Morta  even,  it  is  much  more  involved  than 
either — is,  indeed,  of  so  complex  a  nature 
that  the  foreign  reader  at  least  may  well  be 
uncertain  as  to  his  accurate  interpretation 
of  the  author's  meaning.  Is  La  Comnena, 
that  mysterious  woman  whose  malign  genius 
and  influence  dominate  this  drama,  more 
than  a  heroic  figure,  an  Empress -Elect  ? 
Is  she  indeed  more  than  "  La  Gloria  "  ? 
The  motto  of  the  book,  it  is  true,  seems  at 
once  to  suggest  and  to  limit  the  interpre- 
tation, La  Gloria  mi  somiglia.  But  it  is 
possible — and  on  a  first  reading  the  present 
writer  thus  interpreted  Elena  Comnena — 
that  she  stands  for  Rome  itself  :  not  the 
Rome  of  any  one  age  or  of  all  the  ages, 
neither  pagan  nor  Christian,  nor  mediaeval 
nor  modern  Rome,  but  the  very  spirit  of 
Rome  itself,  proud  with  an  insane  pride, 
and  terrible  and  relentless  in  that  pride, 
that  insane  obsession.  Certainly  this  inter- 
pretation is  at  least  permissible  ;  nor,  if 
331 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

accepted,  does  it  clash  with  that  apparently 
indicated  by  the  motto  quoted  above,  "  I 
am  as  Glory  herself." 

La  Gloria  is  not  only  the  most  ambitious 
of  D'Annunzio's  plays,  but  is  unquestion- 
ably remarkable.  No  doubt  the  author  was 
inspired  to  write  this  play  by  his  own 
comparatively  recent  identification  with 
Italian  Parliamentary  life.  Signer  D'An- 
nunzio  entered  Parliament  with  high  but 
by  no  means  chimerical  ideals  :  from  the 
first  he  seems  to  have  been  animated  by  an 
intense  pride  of  and  faith  in  his  country, 
her  past  and  her  destinies,  and,  above  all, 
by  unbounded  pride  of  and  faith  in  Rome 
the  eternal,  the  City  of  Cities,  Mother  of 
Nations.  If  there  is  one  great  Roman  who 
more  than  any  other  was  much  in  his  mind 
when  he  was  writing  La  Gloria,  surely  it 
was  the  famous  tribune,  Rienzi.  Certainly 
Ruggero  Flamma,  in  many  respects,  recalls 
that  historic  figure.  It  is  difficult  to  dis- 
cern wherein  this  play  is  actual  and  where 
symbolical.  Elena  Comnena,  Cesare  Bronte, 
Ruggero  Flamma — are  they  severally  an 
ambitious  Roman  Cleopatra,  a  dying  cham- 
pion of  the  old  order,  the  prophet  and  leader 
of  a  new  dispensation  :  or  is  La  Comnena 
merely  the  embodied  spirit  of  that  malign 
332 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

destiny  of  which  we  speak  as  Glory  :  is 
Cesare  Bronte  the  impersonation  of  that 
which  is  for  ever  dying  and  passing,  fighting 
desperately  to  the  last  against  ideals  and 
aims  which,  wolf-like,  have  turned  to  rend 
and  destroy  :  is  Ruggero  Flamma  no  other 
than  impetuous,  divinely  confident,  superbly 
audacious  Youth — that  Youth  which,  as 
Ibsen  tells  us,  is  for  ever  knocking  at  our 
doors — itself  so  soon  to  be  broken,  ruined, 
and  remorselessly  trampled  under  the  unseen 
feet  of  Change  ? 

It  would  be  impracticable  here  to  attempt 
anything  like  an  adequate  digest  of  La 
Gloria.  Unlike  La  Gioconda  or  La  Citta 
Morta,  even  its  fundamental  plot  cannot  be 
told  succinctly  :  it  is  at  once  as  compact 
and  multiform  as  "La  Folia  "  itself — La 
Folia,  the  Crowd,  whose  sea -like  tumult, 
wrath,  subsidence,  whose  impetuous  and 
blind  clamour,  forever  recurrent,  give  so 
overwhelmingly  an  effective  background  or 
undertone  to  this  drama.  One  hears  the 
significant  voice  of  La  Folia — with  D'An- 
nunzio  this  abstraction  becomes  a  single 
living  creature,  ominous,  irresponsible,  un- 
constrained— from  first  to  last :  the  play 
opens  with  its  menacing  laughter  and  closes 
with  its  savage,  unreasoning  yells  for  the 
333 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

martyrdom  of  its  dethroned  idol.  In  this 
connection  one  looks  with  singular  interest 
to  the  publication  of  that  drama  to  which 
I  have  already  alluded,  La  Folia  ;  for  here, 
it  may  be,  D'Annunzio  will  give  us,  through 
the  alchemy  of  the  imagination,  a  new 
transmutation  from  the  abstract  to  the 
actual,  a  new  but  inverted  transformation 
of  Demos. 

Briefly,  La  Gloria  illustrates  the  rise  and 
fall  of  Ruggero  Flamma.  Behind,  through, 
and  beyond  his  individual  destiny  is  the 
more  potent  and  mysterious  destiny  of 
Elena  Comnena,  the  wife  of  the  dying 
Cesare  Bronte — La  Comnena,  that  beauti- 
ful, scornful,  imperious  woman,  citizen,  and 
Empress  the  breath  of  whose  will  seems  to 
have  power  to  make  not  only  the  souls  of 
men  rise  up  and  go  down  and  pass  away,  but 
the  destinies  of  nations  also,  the  supreme 
destiny  of  Rome  itself.  The  play  opens 
with  the  coming  of  defeat  to  the  partisans 
of  the  moribund  Cesare  Bronte,  with  the 
popular  advent  of  Ruggero  Flamma.  All 
between  this  opening  and  the  final  scenes 
s  concerned  with  the  passionate  effort  of 
Flamma  to  reach  his  ends,  to  fulfil  his 
ideals,  with  his  immense  triumph  and 
inevitable  disastrous  collapse,  with  the 
334 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

bitter  scorn,  the  bitter  remorselessness,  and 
the  still  more  bitter  love  of  Elena  Comn&na, 
in  whose  fatal  net  Ruggero  Flamma  is 
entangled  from  the  first,  from  which  he 
never  escapes,  and,  as  one  realises,  never 
could  escape.  When,  at  the  opening,  the 
streets  of  Rome  resound  to  the  acclaim  of 
those  who  hail  Ruggero  Flamma  as  Liberator- 
Elect,  and  unharness  his  horses  and  carry 
him  past  the  house  of  his  dying  oppo- 
nent, Cesare  Bronte  ;  when  Flamma  himself 
harangues  the  surging  multitude,  eager  to 
win  over  the  still-loyal  soldiery  ;  and  when, 
above  the  part  infuriated,  part  mocking  and 
insolent  crowd  the  face  of  the  fascinating 
and  hated  woman  whom  they  call  La  Com- 
n£na  looks  out  from  a  window — almost  from 
that  moment  one  hears  the  gathering  of 
distant  cries  of  hate,  the  savage  turning  of 
the  imperiously  led  upon  the  fallen  leader, 
the  shouts  of  Gettaci  la  sua  testa  !  Gettaci  la 
sua  testa  ! — "  Throw  us  his  head  !  Throw  his 
head  to  us  !  " 

That  Elena  Comn£na  stands  for  more 
than  an  individual  woman  is  early  made 
evident  by  a  passage  in  the  first  act,  where 
one  Fulvio  asks,  "  To  how  many  defunct 
kings,  emperors,  and  princes  did  old  Cesare 
ally  himself  in  marrying  La  Comn£na  ?  " 
335 


Some  Dramas  of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

and  the  answer  of  one  Fieschi,  "  To  nineteen 
kings,  ten  emperors,  seventy-seven  sovereign 
princes,  ninety  '  protosebasti,'  one  hundred 
and  fifteen  '  curopalati,'  and  to  all  the  rotten 
plutocracy  of  Byzanzia."  She  may  be 
Byzance,  she  may  be  Rome  ;  but  doubtless 
this  imperial  woman  is  one  common  to  both 
and  to  many  other  dead  cities  and  empires  : 
la  Gloria  mi  somiglia. 

This  remarkable  drama  is  so  different 
from  anything  else  that  D'Annunzio  has 
done  that  we  may  well  believe  it  stands 
for  a  great  change  that  has  come  to  him,  to 
his  art.  What  that  change  is,  what  its 
import  is,  we  shall  doubtless  see  in  those 
as  yet  unpublished  dramatic  writings  which 
Gabriele  D'Annunzio  has  since  written,  or 
upon  which,  as  is  known,  he  is  now 
engaged. 


336 


ITALIAN  POETS  OF  TO-DAY 
(1902) 

IT  has  been  the  vogue  for  a  considerable 
time  to  speak  of  contemporary  Italian 
literature  as  a  negligible  quantity  ;  as  at 
best  a  beautiful  garden,  now  untended  and 
unkempt,  where  the  few  flowers  are  all 
but  undiscoverable  among  the  wilderness  of 
weedy  growths — a  garden  illumined,  it  may 
be,  by  the  sunset  radiance  of  Carducci,  or 
by  the  summer-lightning  of  Gabriele  D'An- 
nunzio.  Generalisations  of  the  kind  are 
notoriously  misleading.  Guy  de  Maupassant 
trenchantly  alluded  to  them  as  the  boome- 
rangs of  the  would-be  clever,  that  on  occasion 
might  hit  their  object,  but  were  more  likely 
to  return  upon  the  thrower.  The  other  day 
we  read  in  a  foreign  summary  that  since 
Walter  Scott  no  novelist  of  note  had 
appeared  in  our  country,  and  that  since 
Byron  the  British  Muse  had  been  silent. 
This  statement  is  not  further  from  the  mark 
than  that  alluded  to  as  common  among  us, 
"  337  Y 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

nor  than  the  rash  assertion  made  a  short 
time  ago  by  one  who  ought  to  have  known 
better,  that  there  was  not  a  latter-day 
poet,  painter,  or  musician  in  Italy  who  stood 
above  mediocrity — and  this  in  the  Italy  of 
Carducci,  of  Segantini,  of  Verdi ! 

A  juster  note  was  struck  a  few  years  ago 
by  one  of  the  foremost  French  critics,  the 
Vicomte  Melchior  de  Vogue,  in  whose  now 
famous  essay  on  the  Latin  Renaissance  occur 
these  significant  words  : 

L'ltalie  est  a  cette  heure  le  foyer  d'une  veritable 
renaissance  de  la  poesie  et  du  roman.  L'esprit, 
qui  souffle  ou  il  veut,  rallume  la  des  clartes 
evanouies  sous  d'autres  cieux. 

In  the  same  year  an  Italian  critic  of  repute, 
Alberto  Manzi,  thus  hopefully  concludes  "  a 
summary  and  outlook  "  : 

Young,  strong,  feverishly  studious  and  laborious, 
Italy  is  passing  through  a  fertile  period  of  pre- 
paration which  will  before  long  lead  to  a  great 
and  splendid  display  of  her  artistic,  literary,  and 
scientific  vitality. 

The  truth  must  be  sought  somewhere 
between  these  optimistic  declarations  and 
the  deep  despondency  of  the  late  Ruggero 
Bonghi,  who  (writing,  it  must  be  remembered, 
some  five  or  six  years  earlier,  and  at  a  time  of 
338 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

exceptional  national  depression)  expressed 
himself  thus  : 

In  the  literary  life  of  the  nation  there  are  signs 
of  the  same  languor  that  paralyses  its  economical 
life.  I  see  no  sign  of  improvement.  I  should  be 
very  glad  if  there  were  a  way  out  of  so  great  a 
lethargy  ;  but  I  do  not  find  it.  I  think  that  the 
chief  cause  is  the  lack  of  any  strong  moral  move- 
ment ;  there  is  nothing  that  agitates  the  public  mind. 

The  phrase  of  Monsieur  de  Vogue  not 
only  aroused  European  attention  :  it  was 
welcomed  in  Italy,  and  sank  deep  into  the 
finer  national  consciousness.  The  distin- 
guished French  critic  was  accepted  as  a 
prophet.  For  Italy  he  foresees  a  worthy 
destiny.  It  is  not,  perhaps,  the  destiny 
dreamed  of  by  those  who  carved  the  inchoate 
"  geographical  expression  "  into  the  soli- 
darity of  a  united  realm  ;  or  of  those  who 
to-day  would  strain  the  national  resources 
for  the  Fata  Morgana  of  a  militant  world- 
Power  ;  but  it  is  a  destiny  at  once  high  and 
possible.  It  is  not,  says  M.  de  Vogue  truly, 
to  be  achieved  by  war,  and  with  great 
ships.  It  is  not  a  destiny  to  be  won  by  the 
sword,  but  by  the  pen  ("  avec  quelques 
condottieri  de  la  plume  "). 

But  what  is  of  more  immediate  concern 
is  that  the  Vicomte  de  Vogue  discerns 

339 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

clearly  what  the  student  of  contemporary 
Italian  literature  must  realise,  if  he  is  to 
form  any  just  estimate,  that  there  is  in  the 
Italian  genius  a  conflict  of  two  opposing 
influences,  the  one  mystical,  idealistic,  aus- 
tere, at  times  ascetic,  the  other  sensual 
and  pagan.  Into  this  conflict  of  "  les 
deux  genies  opposes,  qui  se  disputerent  de 
tout  temps  1'ame  italienne,"  has  entered 
another  element,  the  brooding  spirit  of  the 
North.  To  the  sadness  and  pessimism  in- 
herent in  the  Latin  nature,  along  with  the 
more  obvious  pagan  delight  in  and  absorbing 
preoccupation  with  life  for  life's  sake,  have 
come  another  sadness  and  another  pre- 
occupation. The  Melancolia  whom  Diirer 
limned  in  symbol  and  De  Quincey  adum- 
brated in  words,  whom  the  musicians  of  the 
North  breathed  in  strange  airs  and  har- 
monies ;  whom  Schopenhauer  has  disclosed, 
and  Ibsen  served,  and  Nietszche  interpreted  ; 
who  has  inspired  the  Slavonic  mind  from 
Tolstoi  and  Turgeniev  to  Dostoievski  and 
Maxim  Gorki — this  new  melancholy  (coming 
to  Italy  ever  with  a  Teutonic  aspect  and 
accent)  has  taken  its  place  in  the  Italian 
soul  to  work  for  good  or  evil.  We  hear 
much  of  the  pagan  tendency  of  the  Latin 
genius  ;  to-day  the  thought  of  Italy  is  more 
340 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

coloured  with  longing  and  bewilderment 
than  with  that  hedonistic  vision  of  life 
which  is  supposed  to  be  the  peculiar  attri- 
bute of  the  peoples  of  the  South.  It  is  not 
D'Annunzio  (as  is  so  commonly  assumed 
abroad)  who  is  the  true  representative  of  the 
Italian  mind,  not  even  Carducci,  the  greatest 
of  Italian  pacts  since  Leopardi.  The  true 
representatives  are  writers  such  as  the  nor- 
therners Antonio  Fogazzaro,  Arturo  Graf, 
Ada  Negri ;  as  the  southerners  Mario 
Rapisardi,  Giovanni  Verga,  Matilde  Serao. 
In  these  the  cry  of  revolt  is  against  the 
conditions  of  life  as  incurred  by  human 
wrong  and  folly.  In  Carducci  it  is  a  vain 
cry  of  revolt  against  the  inevitable  change 
of  ideals  and  circumstances,  a  cry  of  longing 
for  the  life  that  was,  the  beauty  that  has 
diminished ;  the  cry  that  in  his  verse 
echoes  in  : 

L'ora  presente  &  in  vano,  non  fa    che  percuotere  e 

fugge  : 
Sol  nel  passato  &  il  bello,  sol  ne  la  wiorte  &  il  vero  ;  * 

the  cry  that  in  his  militant  prose  echoes  in 
phrases  such  as  this  :  "  Poetry  to-day  is 

*  "  The  present  hour  is  as  naught  ;    it  is  gone 

even  as  it  sounds  : 

In  the  past  alone  is  Beauty  ;    only  in  death 
hides  the  True." 

341 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

useless  from  not  having  learned  that  it  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  exigencies  of  the 
moment."  It  is,  however,  a  vain  cry  only 
in  so  far  as  the  concentration  of  spiritual 
or  intellectual  energy  on  an  impossible 
recovery,  or  in  futile  lament,  is  a  vain 
essay,  however  clothed  in  beauty  ;  the  cry 
is  the  wisdom  of  the  seer  and  the  prophetic 
voice  of  the  poet  when  the  things  of  the 
past,  sought  for  in  longing,  are  truly  recover- 
able, or  when  the  lament  for  what  is  gone 
is  not  a  wailing  over  what  has  perished,  but 
a  summons  to  a  living  spirit  to  return. 
The  strength  and  the  weakness  of  Carducci 
stand  revealed  in  the  sane  vision  of  the 
great  poet,  and  in  the  wavering  mirage  of 
the  lesser  poet. 

In  D'Annunzio  we  hear  another  cry — the 
cry  of  revolt  again,  but  of  revolt  against 
spiritual  and  intellectual  ennui  (as  an  im- 
posed evil  rather  than  as  an  incurred 
disease),  of  revolt  against  the  wise  tyranny 
of  the  actual,  of  revolt  against  that  straight 
road  of  the  commonweal,  the  via  media 
which  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients  has  pro- 
jected far  beyond  us  into  the  ages  to  follow  ; 
the  cry  of  temperament,  the  cry  of  exacer- 
bated nerves,  the  cry  of  the  singer  who 
thinks  of  the  whole  world  as  an  air  to  be 
342 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

played  delicately  upon  his  flute,  the  cry  of 
art  withdrawn  from  the  heart  into  the  mind, 
the  cry  of  egoism,  of  the  supreme  egotist. 

It  is  because  of  this  triple  element  in 
contemporary  Italian  literature — this  mysti- 
cal, idealistic,  austere  element,  this  sensual 
and  pagan  element,  and  this  element  of 
intellectual  melancholy  —  "  cette  vraie 
maladie  septentrionale,"  as  M.  Bourget 
calls  it — that  we  shall  do  better  to  seek 
the  reflection  in  the  writings  of  a  few 
typical  minds  rather  than  in  the  "  imma- 
gine  fluente  "  presented  by  the  ampler  but 
confused  mirror  of  the  literature  of  the  day 
and  hour — a  mirror  in  which  we  may  dis- 
cover tendencies  and  tide -reach  and  ebb- 
fall,  but  too  vast  and  complex  for  any  but 
the  broadest  synthesis  of  what  it  reveals. 
And  as  this  article  is  to  deal  with  the  out- 
standing features  of  recent  Italian  poetry, 
and  not  with  the  complex  physiognomy  of 
fiction,  the  selection  should  comprise  only 
the  most  significant  figures — Carducci  and 
Arturo  Graf  and  D'Annunzio,  Antonio 
Fogazzaro  and  Ada  Negri  and  Giovanni 
Pascoli.  Among  the  rest  are  many  poets  of 
fine  achievement,  one  or  two  of  rare  excel- 
lence, whom  to  pass  by  here  is  not  to  ignore. 

There   has  been   a   singular  undulatory 
343 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

movement  in  Italian  literature  during  the 
last  quarter  of  a  century.  A  wave  of  talent 
gathers  from  the  still  lagoons,  but  is  barely 
discerned,  at  most  has  moved  only  a  short 
way,  before  it  lapses  ;  then  again  the  listless 
waste  ;  then  again  a  wave  ;  and  so  the 
melancholy  rhythm  alternates.  But  in  each 
successive  period  the  wave  is  wider,  perhaps 
also  deeper.  If,  in  the  intervals,  the  sad 
prophets  have  been  wont  to  lament  with 
Bonghi,  the  more  hopeful  have  been  too 
apt  to  hail  the  wave  when  it  comes  as  no 
less  than  an  upheaval  of  the  Risorgimento. 
Both  in  some  degree  mislead ;  but  it  is 
wiser  to  go  a  little  astray  with  the  eager 
than  to  stumble  in  the  slough  of  despond. 
To-day  three  main  factors  act  as  deterrents 
on  Italian  literature :  the  absence  of  a 
united  national  ideal ;  the  continually  more 
conspicuous  recession  of  religious  faith  to 
a  callous  formalism ;  and  the  profound 
discontent  with  existing  conditions,  poli- 
tical, social,  economic,  which  finds  vent  in 
the  steady  growth  of  a  crude  Socialism,  and, 
concurrently,  in  a  gathering  disbelief  in  the 
stability  of  the  monarchical  rock  against  the 
coming  flood.  It  is  to  "Young  Italy  "that 
the  nation  looks  above  all  for  salutary 
inspiration. 

344 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

The  high  hopes,  the  passionate  Risorgi- 
mento  of  the  days  of  the  Austrian  struggle, 
of  the  Garibaldian  liberation,  of  the  Mazzi- 
nian  gospel  of  emancipation,  of  the  triumph 
of  Rome,  of  the  Unification,  seem  to  have 
lapsed.  Heavy  taxation,  the  strain  of 
supporting  a  great  army  and  a  powerful 
navy,  the  disastrous  enterprise  in  Abyssinia, 
the  futile  dreams  of  colonial  empire,  the 
slow  disintegration  of  monarchical  influence, 
the  growth  of  a  hostile  Socialism,  the  appa- 
rition of  the  anarchist,  the  bitter  trade- 
rivalry  with  France,  the  tragic  assassination 
of  the  devoted  head  of  the  State  (son  of  the 
Liberator- King),  the  financial  scandals  in 
Rome,  the  labour  risings  from  Milan  to 
Palermo,  the  recurrent  ferment  in  Sicily, 
the  misery  of  Apulia  and  the  Basilicata,  the 
gradual  depopulation  of  Calabria — all  this, 
and  more,  has  moved  "  immortal  Italy  "  to 
its  depths.  It  is  a  welcome  augury  that, 
in  despite  of  all,  the  nation  does  not  despair  ; 
that  her  statesmen  hope ;  that  her  poets  and 
dreamers  proclaim  a  new  day.  "  If  only  we 
could  believe  in  the  honesty  and  far-sighted- 
ness of  those  set  above  us,  we  would  shape  our 
destiny  as  our  noblest  and  truest  discern  it " 
— that  is  what  one  hears  everywhere,  from 
Palermo  to  Venice,  from  Messina  to  Milan. 
345 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

Alas  !  that  "  prevalent  political  leprosy  " 
on  which  the  late  Ruggero  Bonghi  so 
continually  laid  sad  insistence  is  more 
than  all  else  accountable.  The  Neapolitans 
have  a  saying — "Every  one  is  unsettled 
when  Vesuvius  is  restless  "  ;  and,  unfor- 
tunately, there  is  a  moral  Vesuvius  which 
keeps  the  intellectual  activities  of  the 
nation  in  a  feverish  excitation  when  it  is 
not  in  a  torpor  of  hesitancy.  Here  we  have 
the  chief  clue  to  that  ominously  frequent 
ebb  and  flow  to  which  allusion  has  been  made. 
The  causes  act  so  potently  that  the  results 
immediately  follow ;  for  example,  after 
1887,  a  year  of  great  despondency  and 
disquietude,  the  publications  of  1888  were 
fewer  by  some  three  hundred.  No  wonder 
that  in  this  year  Bonghi  wrote :  "In  all 
that  makes  literature,  my  native  country 
has  certainly  grown  feeble  and  weary, 
and  is  growing  more  so  every  year."  For 
the  next  year  or  two  almost  nothing  of  note 
appeared.  A  young  poet,  Mario  di  Siena, 
a  youth  of  seventeen,  on  whom  high  hopes 
were  set,  proved  to  be  but  one  of  the 
innumerable  stelle  cadenti.  Even  that  new 
meteor,  D'Annunzio,  showed  himself  at  his 
weakest  in  Giovanni  Episcopo. 

In  1891  the  slow  wave  began  to  lift 
346 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

again.  Carducci  published  his  noble  and 
patriotic  lyrical  epic,  Piemonte ;  and  the 
marked  success  which  met  Signora  Eugenia 
Levi's  delightful  anthology,  Dai  Nostri 
Poeti  Viventi,  showed  that  not  only  was 
Italy  "  a  nest  of  singing-birds,"  but  that  a 
public  far  wider  than  had  been  foreseen 
waited  ready  to  listen.  Three  well-known 
writers  of  charming  verse  added  to  their 
reputation  by  the  publication,  about  this 
time,  of  collective  editions — G.  Mazzoni, 
Giovanni  Marradi,  and  Aurelio  Costanzo  ; 
and  the  "  Carducci  of  the  South,"  the 
Sicilian  master-poet,  Mario  Rapisardi,  made 
all  the  insurgent  element  of  Italy  re-echo 
with  the  fierce  lyrical  cries  of  his  Giustizia, 
while  at  the  same  time  he  won  the  admira- 
tion of  his  critics  by  his  more  delicately 
wrought  Empedocle.  The  brief  wave  culmi- 
nated before  the  lapse  of  1893  in  the  beauti- 
ful Myricce  of  Giovanni  Pascoli,  one  of  the 
freshest,  most  winsome,  and  happiest  of 
modern  Italian  books  ;  in  an  "  outburst  " 
of  the  minor  Sicilian  poets,  fired,  perhaps, 
by  Rapisardi's  return  to  popularity — notably 
Eliodoro  Lombardi,  Ragusa  Moleti,  and  Ugo 
Ojetti ;  in  a  new  departure  in  sobriety 
and  distinction  on  the  part  of  D'Annunzio, 
with  Elegie  Romane  ;  and,  above  all,  in  the 
347 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

appearance  of  that  remarkable  book, 
Fatalita,  by  Ada  Negri,  with  its  cry  of  the 
dumb  and  the  poor,  of  the  inarticulate 
suffering  of  labour,  of  the  vaguely  insurgent 
multitude,  of  the  angry  clang  (to  use  the 
poet's  own  words)  of  the  enchained  masses 
striking  into  the  silver  flutes  of  those  in 
high  places. 

Then  again  the  ebbing  wave.  The  mono- 
tonous months  of  the  next  year  or  two  are 
relieved  by  only  one  newcomer  of  promise, 
Alfredo  Baccelli,  with  Vittime  e  Ribelli.* 
Even  Carducci,  Rapisardi,  and  D'Annunzio 
fail  respectively  in  //  Cadore,  Atlantide,  and 
Odi  Navale.  The  subsequent  period  would 
be  a  blank  but  for  the  modest  appearance 
of  three  young  writers  of  promise,  the 
Sicilian  Cesareo,  the  Roman  Diego  Angeli, 
the  Lombard  Antonio  della  Porta.  It  must 
be  admitted  that  the  outlook  to-day  is  not 
more  encouraging  than  it  was  a  decade 
ago  ;  perhaps  less  so  since  Carducci  is  now 
all  but  silent,  and  the  mature  writers  of 
the  younger  group — with  the  exception  of 
Giovanni  Pascoli — reveal  no  advance  upon 

*  Signer  Baccelli  is  now  Under-Secretary  of 
State,  and,  in  his  two  spheres  of  influence,  one 
of  the  outstanding  personalities  of  the  younger 
generation, 

348 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

what  they  had  achieved  before  1890.  It 
has  been  pre-eminently  the  period  of 
D'Annunzio  and  the  "  D'Annunzieggianti," 
though  the  fame  of  this  writer  is  perhaps 
greater  throughout  the  Continent  than  in 
the  peninsula,  where  he  is  still  looked  upon 
somewhat  askance,  as  a  clever  but  audacious 
and  refractory  ward  is  looked  upon  by  an 
anxious  guardian.  With  justice,  too,  the 
Italians  resent  the  frequent  assertion  abroad 
that  Gabriele  D'Annunzio  stands  alone  as 
representative  of  the  intellectual  Italy  of 
to-day,  as  with  justice  the  Belgians  resent 
the  like  common  assertion  in  connection 
with  Maurice  Maeterlinck. 

Within  the  last  three  or  four  years  there 
have  been  signs  of  the  returning  tide.  The 
low-water  mark  was  probably  touched  in 
1897-8,  a  period  barren  of  any  signal 
literary  achievement.  True,  the  much-dis- 
cussed poetess,  Ada  Negri,  published  her 
fine  volume  of  drab-coloured  verse,  Tem- 
peste — a  lyrical  series  which  reveals,  how- 
ever, no  advance  upon  Fatalitd,  while  all 
that  stood  for  weakness  in  that  remarkable 
first  book  by  an  Italian  woman  in  humble 
life  is  notably  emphasised.  It  would  be 
unfair  to  say  that  this  slack  period  was 
absolutely  barren,  for  both  in  the  verse  and 
349 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

prose  which  deserved  critical  attention  were 
one  or  two  instances  of  fine  work  accom- 
plished, and  at  least  two  or  three  of  promise. 
But,  as  an  able  critic  (Vicenzo  Morello,  in 
his  Nell'  Arte  e  Nella  Vita)  has  said, 

These  fragile  blossoms  of  song  appear  one  day 
and  disappear  the  next  in  that  blighting  wind  of 
indifference  which  has  so  long  prevailed  from  the 
Alps  of  the  north  to  the  shores  of  Etna. 

Nevertheless,  there  is  evident  an  awaken- 
ing of  public  interest  in  national  literature* 
probably  in  some  degree  because  of  the 
"  commemorations  "  celebrated  at  the  close 
of  the  century,  with  their  stirring  historical 
reminiscences  and  inspiring  literary  asso- 
ciations— Amerigo  Vespucci,  Paolo  Toscan- 
elli,  Savonarola,  Leopardi,  Bernini,  and 
others.  From  the  standpoint  of  letters  the 
period  is  notable  for  the  immense  stride  in 
Italian  and  European  reputation  made  by 
one  writer,  Gabriele  D'Annunzio.  In  one 
year,  in  the  twelvemonth  comprising  the 
otherwise  somewhat  barren  period  1898-9, 
this  writer's  amazing  output  included  the 
three  long  dramas  published  in  book  form, 
La  Cittd  Morta,  La  Gioconda,  and  La 
Gloria,  and  the  two  shorter  dramas  sepa- 
rately issued  as  the  Sogno  d'un  Mattino  di 
Primavera  and  the  Sogno  d'un  Tramonto 
35<> 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

d'Autunno.*  La  Gioconda  and  La  Cittd 
Morta  have  been  read  and  discussed  through- 
out Europe  ;  and  the  former  has  been  acted 
in  London  and  Paris  as  well  as  in  the  chief 
Italian  cities.  La  Gloria,  D'Annunzio's  most 
ambitious  dramatic  attempt,  was  unsuccessful 
on  the  stage;  and,  though  some  of  the  leading 
Italian  critics  spoke  of  this  strange,  not  to 
say  somewhat  enigmatic,  play  with  high 
praise,  their  appreciation  was  never  endorsed 
by  that  of  the  public.  Already  known  as  a 
poet  and  novelist,  D'Annunzio  had  now 
challenged  criticism  as  a  dramatist.  But 
while  radical  differences  of  opinion  obtain  as 
to  the  significance  and  value  of  his  achieve- 
ment in  this  direction,  there  can  surely  be 
little  question  as  to  the  wealth  of  imagina- 
tive energy  and  the  continual  miracle  of  art 
poured  forth  in  these  dramas,  most  notably 
perhaps  in  that  sombre  and  terrible  play  of 
the  buried  city,  which  (with  one  or  two 
exceptions)  has  been  so  inadequately  con- 
sidered by  English  critics ;  or  in  La  Gioconda, 
of  which  an  eminent  Italian  critic,  Guido 

*  The  first  and  third  of  a  dramatic  quartet 
called  I  Sogni  delle  Stagioni  (Dreams  of  the  Four 
Seasons'),  of  which  the  Sogno  d'un  Meriggio 
d'Estate  and  Sogno  d'una  Notte  d'Inverno  are  as 
yet  unpublished, 

351 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

Biagi,  has  aptly  said :  "In  any  case  La 
Gioconda  has  brought  into  the  theatre  a 
breath  of  fresh  and  fragrant  poetry,  which 
might  have  come  from  the  blossoming 
gardens  of  the  Renaissance  "  ;  or  in  that 
masterpiece  of  poignant  beauty,  the  Dream 
of  a  Spring  Morning,  where,  in  combined 
loveliness  and  terror,  we  find  something 
akin  to  the  Elizabethan  magic  that  we  prize 
so  highly  in  Webster,' in  Ford,  in  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher. 

We  cannot  in  this  article  further  discuss 
D'Annunzio's  achievement  in  imaginative 
drama,  nor  his  work  in  this  respect  as  com- 
pared with  that  of  Arrigo  Boito,  Felice 
Cavallotti,  Severino  Ferrari,  Cossa,  and 
above  all  Giuseppe  Giacosa.  But  the  drift 
of  the  most  authoritative  opinion,  foreign 
and  native,  is  that  D'Annunzio  has  revealed 
no  compelling  genius,  perhaps  not  even  a 
genuine  talent,  for  the  drama,  except  as  a 
form  of  literary  expression.  All  the  faults 
and  shortcomings  of  this  perplexing  writer 
are  of  a  nature  to  render  nugatory  his 
ambition  to  become  "  the  Wagner  of  the 
drama."  His  latest  effort,  Francesca  da 
Rimini,  has  failed  on  the  stage  ;  the  radical 
shortcomings  of  this  poetical  drama  as  an 
acting  play,  despite  its  beauty  and  charm 
352 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

and  above  all  its  vividness,  make  it  difficult 
to  believe  that  it  can  appeal  to  any  but  a 
strictly  literary  public. 

The  close  of  the  nineteenth  and  the  dawn 
of  the  twentieth  century  were  not  wholly 
engrossed  by  "  the  Deputy  for  Beauty  " — 
to  adopt  M.  de  Vogue's  phrase — and  the 
D'Annunzieggianti,*  though  his  fame  was 
enhanced  by  the  furore  which  followed 
the  publication  of  //  Fuoco,  and  the 
announcement  of  the  long-expected  volume 
of  mature  verse,  Laudi  del  Cielo,  del  Mare, 
delta  Terra,  e  degli  Eroi,  and  of  the 
forthcoming  Francesca  da  Rimini,  and  the 
public  readings  and  actual  publication 
of  the  first  instalment  of  the  lyrical  epic, 
La  Canzone  di  Garibaldi.  An  important 
new  book  (besides  a  volume  of  notable 
essays  and  addresses)  by  Antonio  Fogaz- 
zaro  ;  Giovanni  Pascoli's  second  collection 
of  lovely  verse,  Myrica,  hailed  with  de- 
light throughout  Italy  ;  t  Vittoria  Aganoor's 

*  Notably  D.  Tumiati,  Antonio  della  Porta, 
Angelo  Orvieto,  Diego  Angeli,  Angelo  Conti. 

t  The  author  is  sometimes  lovingly  called  "  II 
Virgilio  di  nostro  tempo,"  and  his  idyllic  muse 
and  home-note  justify  the  application.  To  many 
of  his  compatriots,  moreover,  his  appeal  is  the 
greater  because  his  muse  never  wanders  from 
familiar  ground.  No  more  significant  lines  of 

"  353  z 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

Leggenda  Eterna ;  the  exquisitely  chiselled 
Primavera  Fiorentina  of  Severino  Ferrari 
(of  some  of  whose  earlier  work  Carducci 
wrote  :  "  If  Petrarch  were  among  us  to-day 
he  would  be  proud  of  this  ") ;  Arrigo  Boito's 
much  -  discussed  Nerone  ;  Arturo  Graf's 
Morgana  ;  the  brilliant  colloquial  sonnet  - 
sequence  of  Cesare  Pascarella ;  the  new 
edition  of  the  Musica  antica  per  Chitana  of 
Domenico  Tumiati,  foremost  of  the  "  Sym- 
bolists "  ;  the  just  published  Verso  VOriente 
of  Angelo  Orvieto,  the  young  author  of 
Sposa  Mistica — these,  and  others  whom  it 
would  be  wearisome  to  enumerate,  suffice 
to  show  both  the  vitality  and  variety  of 
the  new  "  Risorgimento."  Perhaps  the 
most  significant  indication  of  an  Italian 
public  really  interested  in  imaginative  litera- 
ture is  the  publication,  in  a  single  volume 
at  a  moderate  price,  of  all  the  poetry  of 
Carducci  in  a  "  popular  edition  "  ;  and  in 
the  fact  that  this  (for  an  Italian  publisher) 
daring  venture  has  achieved  a  wide  success. 
But  the  true  hope  is  here — that  all  Young 
Italy  reproves  despondency,  and  looks 

his,  indeed,  could  be  quoted  than  those  which  end 
the  last  poem  in  Myvica  : 

lo  ne  seguira  il  vano  sussurrare 
Sempre  lo  stesso,  sempre  put  lontano. 

354 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

forward  with  courage  and  determination. 
It  believes  in  itself,  in  its  national  vocation, 
in  the  national  destiny  ;  it  maintains  the 
survival,  within  itself,  of  the  ancient  spirit 
of  the  ancient  genius.  "  It  sleeps,  that 
antique  spirit,"  wrote  Carducci  many  years 
ago,  "  it  sleeps,  but  is  not  dead  ;  and,  as  a 
sleeper  wakes,  so  shall  it  wake,  and  to  a 
new  day." 

When,  some  pages  back,  we  spoke  of 
the  three  chief  deterrent  influences  working 
on  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  life  of  the 
nation,  we  might  have  added  that  in  yet 
another  vital  respect  the  writers  of  Italy  are 
seriously  affected.  In  no  other  European 
country,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
Spain,  is  there  so  marked  a  divergence 
between  the  language  of  letters  and  the 
language  of  common  use,  between  literary 
and  colloquial  speech.  The  "  reading  public  " 
in  Italy  is  amazingly  small  in  relation  to  the 
population,  if  we  compare  it  with  that  of 
France,^  Germany,  Holland,  Scandinavia, 
Great  Britain.  But  the  ordinary  speech 
of  this  relatively  small  reading  public  is 
quite  as  amazingly  distinct  from  literary 
diction  as  is,  say,  the  vernacular  of  London 
or  New  York  from  the  ornate  periods  of 
Johnson,  Gibbon,  or  Macaulay,  and  has 
355 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

not  even  the  vital  connection  which,  in 
these  cases,  underlies  the  obvious  divergence. 
No  wonder  that  Carducci,  the  most  polished 
living  master  of  Italian,  is  all  but  incom- 
prehensible to  many  of  his  intelligent  com- 
patriots, who  find  even  Antonio  Fogazzaro 
and  Emilio  De  Marchi,  Giovanni  Verga,  and 
Matilde  Serao  (the  most  vernacular  of  the 
eminent  writers  of  the  day)  using  a  diction 
which  in  private  life  would  seem  alien,  if 
not  wholly  artificial.  For  Italy  is  above  all 
others  the  country  of  dialectical  speech. 
That  this  barrier  is  being  overcome,  and  that 
the  directed  efforts  of  the  ablest  writers  and 
educationalists  concur  with  the  slow  but 
steady  improvement  of  the  mental  training 
of  the  masses  (i.e.,  of  all  classes,  from  the 
professional  to  the  poorest,  even  in  densely 
ignorant  Calabria  and  remote  Sicily),  affords 
promise  that  a  truly  great  national  literature 
will  in  due  time  arise  in  Italy.  Fortunately 
there  has  always  been  the  connecting  bridge 
of  "  popular  literature  " — i.e.,  the  colloquial 
and  dialectical  local  poetry  in  which  Italy  has 
ever  been,  and  still  is,  so  fortunately  rich. 

Like  so  many  others  of  his  countrymen 
now  writing  circumspectly  of  the  problems, 
the  developments,  and  the  collective  move- 
ment of  Italian  literature,  the  late  Ruggero 
356 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

Bonghi  (whom  we  specify  as  a  representa- 
tive critic)  did  not  realise  that  the  so-called 
"  pagan  "  or  "  barbaric  "  movement  headed 
by  Carducci  was,  and  is,  one  of  those 
inevitable  life-seeking  movements  which 
periodically  occur  in  every  literature,  when 
old  ways  have  become  outworn  ;  or,  again, 
that  a  regenerative  movement  of  the  kind 
may  have  to  turn  backward  in  order  to 
rediscover  the  forward  way.  A  large  part, 
possibly  the  greater  and  the  more  vital 
part,  of  contemporary  Italian  literature 
turns  thus  upon  an  apparently  retrograde 
way,  turns  upon  what  is  called  the  classical 
revival.  The  famous  veteran  at  Bologna  is 
its  accepted  leader.  But  neither  Carducci 
nor  his  adherents  (who  now  comprise  nearly 
all  the  younger  writers  of  note)  attempt  a 
revival  of  the  kind  so  often  imputed.  It  is 
not  mere  imitation  of  the  past  that  is  the 
end  in  view,  but,  through  a  following  of  the 
same  avenues  of  art  as  those  in  which  the 
great  poets  of  old  reached  their  goal,  to  reach 
in  turn  the  same  or  a  still  higher  goal.  To 
this  end  it  was  necessary  to  break  away 
from  the  conventions  which  had  so  ham- 
pered, not  to  say  devitalised,  modern  Italian 
literature.  It  was  not  thought  or  inspira- 
tion only  that  had  to  have  new  wings,  not 
357 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

poetry  only,  but  metre  itself  had  to  shed  its 
old  chrysalis  and  break  into  a  new  life. 

In  every  new  intellectual  movement  the 
feature  of  exaggeration  is  inevitable  ;   with- 
out exaggeration  no  new  energy  is  likely  to 
force  its  way.     It  was  long,  and  to  some 
extent  still  is,  the  wont  in  Italy  to  impute 
to  Carducci  an  almost  perverse  exaggera- 
tion, not  only  as  to  his  intellectual  stand- 
point (that  of  a  modern  man  consistently 
looking   backward),    or   as   to   his   lifelong 
effort  to  recreate  in  the  Italian  vernacular 
of  to-day  the  dignity  and  beauty  of  the 
vernacular  of  Horace  and  Catullus,  but  as 
to    wilful    obscurity    in    point    of   metrical 
diction.     The  obscurity  of  Carducci  is  not 
that    of   congested   thought   and   crowded 
images,  as  in  Browning  ;    nor  that  of  the 
dazzle  of  continual  by -play,  as  in  George 
Meredith  ;    nor  that  of   careful  and  calcu- 
lated   occultism,    as    in    Mallarme.      It   is 
rather  the   "  obscurity  "  of  extreme  light, 
such  as  that  which  the  earliest  critics  of 
Leconte  de  Lisle,  Villiers   de    1'Isle  Adam, 
Baudelaire    and     Heredia,    found    in    the 
classically    pure    diction    of    those    writers. 
Carducci  has  little  in  common  with  writers 
like  Mallarme,  with  whom  he  is  often  igno- 
rantly  compared.     He  is  rather  the  Italian 
358 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

confrere  of  Leconte  de  Lisle,  of  Jose  Maria 
Heredia,  but  is  more  "  human,"  more  of 
his  day  and  hour,  than  the  supreme  French 
classicist  in  verse,  and  has  a  spiritual 
earnestness  alien  to  the  cold  beauty  of  M. 
He're'dia's  "  perfected  ivory."  At  the  same 
time  it  cannot  be  denied  that  both  in 
remote  allusion  and  in  calculated  Latinity 
of  diction  he  is  occasionally  pedantic ; 
and  it  would  be  easy  to  cull  from  his  writings 
lines  and  even  quatrains  or  passages  which 
would  justify  the  complaint  frequently  heard 
in  Italy  that  "  Carducci  is  difficult,  often 
even  unintelligible."  Then,  too,  his  Italian 
is  so  far  from  colloquial  that  even  when 
clear  to  a  compatriot  it  is  difficult  to  render 
adequately  in  English,  for  sometimes  the  dif- 
ference is  a  constitutional  difference  of  racial 
genius  as  well  as  of  speech,  as,  to  choose 
at  random  an  instance,  the  final  quatrain 
of  the  lovely  poem,  Su  Monte  Mario  : 

Su  le  rovine  de  la  basilica 
Di  Zeno  al  sole  sibili  il  colubro, 
Ancov  canter ai  nel  deserlo 
I  tedi  insonni  de  I'infinito. 

But   these   occasional   defects   are   mere 

specks  on  the  polished  mirror  of  Carducci's 

poetry,  at  once  so  beautiful,  so  distinguished, 

so  antique,  so  modern,  the  only  poetry  of 

359 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

to-day  which  can  be  compared  with  that  of 
Leconte  de  Lisle  and  Alfred  de  Vigny,  with 
that  of  the  poet's  greater  predecessors, 
above  all  with  that  of  his  chosen  master, 
Catullus.  Every  great  poet  is  in  a  sense 
a  metrical  inventor  :  and  with  the  exception 
of  Mr.  Swinburne  there  is  no  living  master 
of  metre,  particularly  of  classical  metres, 
comparable  with  Giosue  Carducci.  In  a 
word,  it  is  not  by  their  exaggerations  we 
are  to  judge  Carducci  and  the  writers  who 
follow  his  lead,  or  the  intellectual  fellowships 
typified  by  Antonio  Fagazzaro,  Arturo  Graf, 
Ada  Negri,  Giovanni  Pascoli,  or  Gabriele 
D'Annunzio  and  the  D'Annunzieggianti. 
All  these  have  to  be  judged  by  their  range 
of  thought,  the  object  of  their  aim,  and  their 
actual  achievement. 

The  student  of  Italian  literature,  there- 
fore, will  do  well  to  put  aside  as  irrelevant 
nearly  all  that  he  reads  or  hears  as  to  the 
"  pseudo-classicism  "  of  Carducci  and  the 
rest  who  participate  in  that  vital  movement 
at  the  head  of  which  he  stands.  For  it  is 
a  movement  of  life,  not  of  an  artificially 
stimulated  erudition  ;  a  movement  of  fresh 
energy,  not  a  spurred  effort.  It  is  in  truth 
part  of  a  "  movement,"  of  an  uplifted  life 
that  is  not  confined  to  this  or  that  leader 
360 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

and  his  following,  nor  to  Italy,  nor  even  to 
the  Latin  countries,  but  is  coextensive  with 
the  human  mind. 

Already,  we  perceive,  it  is  a  long  way 
from  the  conditions  indicated  by  Lamartine 
in  a  once  notorious  passage  of  the  Pelerinage 
cTHarold,  where  Italy  is  alluded  to  as 

Poussiere  du  passe,  qu'un  vent  sterile  agite, 

a  phrase  which,  with  the  added  "  Je  vais 
chercher  ailleurs  .  .  .  des  hommes  et  non  pas 
de  la  poussiere  humaine,"  brought  the  French 
poet  a  "  cartel  "  from  an  indignant  Italian 
patriot,  the  once  celebrated  General  Pepe. 

In  a  broad  classification,  then,  as  already 
indicated,  Antonio  Fogazzaro  and  Arturo 
Graf  stand  for  the  North,  Giosue  Carducci 
and  Giovanni  Pascoli  for  the  Centre  (and 
this  not  only  in  the  geographical  sense), 
and  Gabriele  D'Annunzio  for  the  South,  as 
well  as  for  that  neo-paganism,  neo-Hellenism, 
and  very  modern  (and,  we  may  add,  world- 
old)  hedonism  which  too  often  is  the  dignified 
verbal  raiment  of  a  very  unworthy  thing, 
generally  more  crudely  designated. 

Although   Fogazzaro   and   Graf  are   the 

most   distinctive  of  the  Northerners,  they 

differ    materially.     The    elder    and    more 

famous   is   the   Fran$ois   Millet   of   Italian 

361 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

literature,  but  a  Millet  of  a  far  wider  intel- 
lectual and  sesthetic  range  than  the  great 
Frenchman.  The  pathos  and  dignity  of 
suffering,  of  sorrow,  of  the  heavy  burden 
bravely  borne  ;  the  nobility  of  faith  and 
courage  ;  the  beauty  of  simplicity  in  life 
and  art ;  the  charm  of  tenderness  and  the 
sustaining  power  of  love — these  are  the 
sources  of  this  writer's  genius,  both  in  prose 
and  verse.  But,  pure  as  is  his  Italian, 
virile  and  idiomatic,  the  colour  of  his 
mind  is  distinctively  Northern,  Teutonic. 
So  might  a  Scandinavian,  an  Englishman, 
a  German,  write,  were  he  equally  gifted, 
and  were  he  an  adopted  Italian,  settled 
in  that  Northern  Alpine  region  of  the  lakes, 
so  well  loved,  sung,  and  praised  by  Fogaz- 
zaro.  That  gentle  but  all-pervading  melan- 
choly of  his,  too — so  different  from  the 
disdainful  stoicism  of  Carducci,  the  baffled 
despair  of  writers  such  as  Ada  Negri,  the 
life -weariness  of  Graf,  the  ennui  of  D'An- 
nunzio,  the  hard  pessimism  of  Rapisardi 
and  Verga — is  likewise  Northern.  But  it 
would  be  a  mistake  to  think  of  Fogazzaro 
as  a  sentimentalist,  notwithstanding  the 
sentimentality  of  some  of  his  work.  He 
stands  for  what  is  finest  in  the  Italian  nature  ; 
and  the  love  and  reverence  in  which  he  is 
362 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

held  afford  the  best  proof  of  his  high  signi- 
ficance in  contemporary  literature.  "  Val- 
solda  "  (in  whose  beautiful  valley  he  has 
passed  the  better  part  of  his  life)  has  become 
a  signal  word  in  Italy,  for  it  is  now  identified 
with  some  of  the  loveliest  verse  and  much 
of  the  noblest  prose  of  the  day — is,  indeed, 
associated  with  a  noble  personal  ideal,  the 
ideal  of  a  simple,  strong,  much-suffering, 
yet  ever  brave  and  serene  life.  "  Our 
Walter  Scott,"  Giacosa  has  called  Antonio 
Fogazzaro. 

But  he,  too,  like  Arturo  Graf — though 
not  as  a  fascinated  victim,  rather  as  one 
greatly  dreading  yet  sustained  by  faith — 
has  looked  at  times  overfearfully  in  the  face 
of  that  new  tragic  Muse  of  the  modern 
world,  "  Madre  Dolorosa."  In  his  remarkable 
study  on  Sadness  in  Art,*  Fogazzaro  writes  : 

Senza  tenerezza,  senza  fiamma  ...  la  potenza 
sua  fascinatrice  6  nella  grandiosita  del  suo  dolore 
stesso,  £  1'idea  pura,  fatta  marmo,  dell'  universale 
dolore,  del  dolore  che  oscura  presto  o  tardi  ogni 
vita  umana. 

The  words  have  the  colour  of  Fogazzaro 's 

mind,  and  show,  as  a  tinted  map,  the  colour 

of  a  vast  region  in  the  Italian  thought  of 

to-day.     In  the  same  essay  he  speaks  of 

*  //  Dolore  nelV  Arts.     (Milan,  1901.) 

363 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

"  la  innocenza  magnifica  della  natura  "  ; 
but  he  and  those  of  his  spiritual  fellowship 
trust  little  to  this  "  magnificent  innocence," 
and  for  the  most  part  look  habitually  into 
life,  not  only  as  in  a  glass  darkly,  but  as 
into  a  dark  pool,  heavy  with  the  shadow  of 
ancient  sorrow  and  obscure  menace.  True, 
Fogazzaro  is  not  a  pessimist ;  he  has  not 
the  steel-bound  gloom  of  Graf,  whose 
impeccable  verse  is  forged  rather  than 
moulded.  But  in  his  poems  and  novels, 
notably  in  //  Mistero  del'  Poeta,  and  in  the 
excellent  monograph  on  his  life-work  by 
Sebastiano  Rumor,*  and,  above  all,  in  his 
always  intimate  and  profoundly  sincere 
"  addresses  " — as,  for  example,  when  he 
spoke  in  Rome  in  1893  on  The  Origin  of  Man 
and  the  Religious  Sentiment,  or,  recently, 
at  the  Collegio  Romano,  on  I  Misteri  dello 
Spirito  Umano — a  deep  and  native  melan- 
choly pervades  even  the  most  ardent 
words  of  faith  and  hope,  and  underlies  all 
but  the  sunniest  and  most  debonair  of  his 
poems.  Nevertheless,  his  influence  is  wholly 
for  good — the  foremost  moral  influence  now 
moulding  Young  Italy.  Seldom  is  the  bio- 

*  A .  Fogazzaro.  La  Sua  Vita,  le  Sue  Opere, 
i  Suoi  Critici.  By  Sebastiano  Rumor.  (Milan, 
1896.) 

364 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

grapher  more  literally  truthful  than  Sebas- 
tiano  Rumor  in  writing,  "  In  tutta  Italia 
il  nome  di  Antonio  Fogazzaro,  poeta  e 
romanziere,  e  riverito  ed  amato." 

Though  all  the  poetry  of  Fogazzaro  is 
worth  familiarity  (particularly  for  those 
who  feel  the  underlying  charm  of  his  prose 
romances),  the  foreign  reader  may  be  content 
with  the  Selected  Poems,  published  in  Milan 
in  1898  ;  the  more  so  as  it  is  not  in  the 
longer  poetical  compositions,  such  as  the 
versified  novel,  Miranda,  but  in  the  shorter 
poems,  that  he  is  to  be  found  at  his  best. 
One  of  these,  a  poem  representative  of  the 
author's  mastery  over  the  cadence  of  simple 
Italian  prosody,  may  fitly  be  quoted  here  : 

LA  SERA 

(LE  CAMPANE  DI  OIRA) 
A  d  occidente  il  del  si  discolor  a, 
Vien  I'  or  a — de  le  tenebre. 
Da  gli  spiriti  malt, 
Signor,  guarda  i  mortali  I 
Oriamo. 

(LE  CAMPANE  DI  OSTENO) 

Pur  noi  su  I'  onde 
Moviam  da  queste  solitarie  sponde 
Voci  prof  onde. 
Da  gli  spiriti  malt, 
Signor,  guarda  i  mortali  I 
Oriamo. 

365 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

(LE  CAMPANE  DI  FURIA) 
Pur  noi  remote,  ad  alte 
Fra  le  buie  montagne 
Odi,  Signore. 
Da  gli  spiriti  mali 
Guarda  i  mortali  ! 

Oriamo. 

(ECHI  DELLE  VALLl) 

Oriamo. 

(TUTTE  LE  CAMPANE) 
//  lume  nasce  e  muore  ; 
Che  riman  dei  tramonti  e  delle  aurore  ? 
Tutto,  Signore, 
Tranne  I'  Eterno,  al  mondo 
E  vano. 

(ECHI  DELLE  VALLl) 

E  vano. 

(TUTTE  LE  CAMPANE) 
Oriamo,  oriamo  in  pianto, 
Da  I'  alto  e  dal  profondo, 
Pei  morti  e  pei  viventi, 
Per  tanta  colpa  occulta  e  dolor 
Pietd  Signore  ! 
Tutto  il  dolore 
Che  non  ti  prega, 
Tutto  I'  errore 
Che  ti  diniega, 
Tutto  I'  amove 
Che  a  te  non  piega, 
Perdona,  O  Santo. 

(ECHI  DELLE  VALLl) 

O  Santo. 
366 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

(TUTTE  LE  CAMPANE) 
Oviam  per  i  dormienti 
Del  cimitero 

Che  dicon  rei,  che  dicono  innocenti, 
E  tu,  Mistero, 
Solo  tu  sai. 

(ECHI  DELLE  VALLl) 

Solo  tu  sai. 

(TUTTE  LE  CAMPANE) 
Oviam  per  il  profondo 
Soffrir  del  mondo 
Che  tutto  vive  e  sente. 
Ama,  dolora, 

Giudigio  arcano  de  I'  Omnipotente. 
Sia  pace  al  monte  a  I'  onda. 
A I  bronzo  ancora 
Sia  pace. 

(ECHI  DELLE  VALLl) 

Pace.* 

*  Evening.  (The  Bells  of  Oria) — In  the  west 
the  heavens  redden  ;  the  gloaming  is  come.  From 
all  evil  spirits,  Lord,  guard  Thy  children.  Let 
us  pray  !  (The  Bells  of  Osteno) — We  also,  by 
the  waters  [beneath  these  lonely  hill-sides],  lift 
out  voices  from  the  depths.  From  all  evil  spirits, 
Lord,  guard  thy  children.  Let  us  pray  !  (The 
Bells  of  Furia)—We,  too,  remote  and  lone  among 
the  shadowy  hills,  cry  to  Thee,  Lord  !  From  all 
evil  spirits  guard  Thy  children.  Let  us  pray  ! 
(Echoes  from  the  Valleys) — Let  us  pray  !  (All  the 
Bells) — The  light  is  born,  and  dies  ;  what  remains 
of  sunsets  or  dawns  ?  All,  Lord,  all  of  this  world, 
all  save  the  eternal,  is  vain.  (Echoes  from  the 

367 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

There  is  perhaps  no  stranger  apparition 
in  contemporary  Italian  literature  than 
Arturo  Graf.  Called  the  Heredia  of  Italy, 
because  of  the  classic  ideal  and  impeccable 
form  of  his  verse,  he  is  the  son  of  an  Italian 
mother  by  a  German  father.  He  was  born 
at  Athens,  nurtured  in  Greece — that  Greece 
whose  art  he  has  mastered,  but  whose  tem- 
perament he  has  not  inherited,  having  been 
endowed  instead  with  the  world-sadness  of 
Schopenhauer  and  Nietzsche — and  trans- 
planted while  still  young  to  Roumania, 
whence  in  early  manhood  he  came  to 

Valleys) — Is  vain  !  (All  the  Bells) — Let  us  pray, 
let  us  pray,  from  mountain-height  and  shadowy 
vale,  for  the  living  and  for  the  dead,  for  all  secret 
wrong  and  evil,  have  pity,  Lord  !  All  sorrow  that 
doth  not  come  to  Thee  in  prayer,  all  bitterness 
that  denieth  Thee,  all  love  that  doth  not  seek 
Thee,  have  pity  upon  it,  O  Holy  Spirit  !  (Echoes 
from  the  Valleys)— O  Holy  Spirit  !  (All  the  Bells) 
— Let  us  pray  for  those  sleeping  the  long  sleep 
of  the  grave  ;  for  those  who  are  accounted  sinners, 
and  for  those  accounted  without  sin  !  For  Thou 
alone,  Mysterious  Spirit,  Thou  only  knowest  all. 
(Echoes  from  the  Valleys) — Thou  only  knowest 
all.  (All  the  Bells) — Let  us  pray  for  all  the  sorrow 
and  suffering  of  the  world,  which  lives  in  grief 
and  pain.  Love,  sorrow  .  .  .  hidden  wisdom  of 
the  All- Wise.  Let  there  be  peace  upon  the  hill- 
side, by  the  waters  !  On  the  holy  bells,  them- 
selves, peace  !  (Echo  from  the  Valleys) — Peace  ! 
368 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

Milan.  In  the  intensity  of  his  irremediable 
pessimism  he  can  be  compared  with  no 
French  poet  save  the  anonymous  author  of 
the  Chants  de  Maldoror,  with  no  English 
poet  save  James  Thomson  of  The  City  of 
Dreadful  Night ;  and  nothing  in  the  fan- 
tastically sombre  verse  of  Nietzsche  suggests 
the  same  profound  depths  of  gloom.  But 
Graf's  terrible  sadness,  his  almost  elemental 
melancholy,  has  never  the  suggestion  of 
anything  ignoble,  as  in  Maldoror  or  Baude- 
laire ;  it  is  never  the  mere  rhetoric  of  spiritual 
collapse  and  despair,  as  sometimes  in  James 
Thomson  ;  nor  is  it  the  outcome  of  intel- 
lectual fever,  or  of  the  tortured  nerves,  or 
of  a  powerful  mind  habitually  apt  to  lose 
its  equilibrium,  as  with  the  author  of  Thus 
Spake  Zarathustra.  He  gathers  up  all  the 
hopelessness  of  Italy,  of  the  world,  of  the 
human  soul ;  moulds  it  in  tears  and  long- 
ing, and  the  unutterable  sadness  of  sorrow 
without  hope  ;  and  reveals  it  to  us  in  lovely 
image  after  image,  in  chiselled  verse  of 
perfect  form,  in  a  beauty  rendered  almost 
unnaturally  poignant.  In  a  far  deeper 
sense  than  the  somewhat  blatant  Lucifer 
of  Mario  Rapisardi,  than  the  magnificently 
rhetorical  Hymn  to  Satan  of  Carducci,  Graf's 
Buried  Titan  (in  the  very  remarkable  poem 
II  369  2  A 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

La  Citta  dei  Titani  in  the  volume  called 
Le  Danaidi]  may  be  said  to  symbolise  the 
bewildered  attitude  of  the  modern  mind. 
So  absolutely  does  he  differ  from  the  Latin 
temperament  that  he  remains  cold  even 
before  the  inspiration  of  woman.  Neither 
the  beautiful  actuality  nor  the  seductive 
visionary  type  moves  this  modern  St. 
Anthony.  In  all  his  writings  we  remember 
no  verse  in  the  slightest  degree  recalling 
these  eminently  Carduccian  lines  (from  Ruit 
Horn,  perhaps  the  loveliest  poem  in  the  first 
Odi  Barbare)  : 

Fra  le  tue  neve  chiome,  o  bianco,  Lidia, 
Langue  una  rosa  pallida  ; 
E  una  dolce  a  me  in  cuor  tristezza  subita 
Tetnpra  d'  amor  gl'  incendii.* 

Nor  has  he  ever  any  such  cry  to  the  lesser 
destinies  as  : 

O  des'iata  verde  solitudine 
Lungi  al  rumor  de  gli  uomini  ! 
Qui  due  con  noi  divini  amid  vengono 
Vino  ed  amore,  O 


*  "  In  thy  dark  hair,  O  white  Lidia,  a  pale  rose 
languishes  ;  in  my  heart  suddenly  a  sweet  sadness 
softens  the  flame  of  love." 

f  "  O  longed-for  green  solitude,  far  from  the 
rumour  of  men  ;  hither  have  come  with  us  our 
two  divine  friends,  Wine  and  Love,  O  Lidia," 

37° 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

If  once  or  twice  we  think  we  hear  the  cry 
of  passion,  it  is  only  that  of  disillusion  or 
brooding  incertitude. 

0  woman,  the  darkness  in  thine  eyes  is  the  darkness 

of  night  ; 
Thy  soul,  too,  is  obscure  and  mysterious  as  the  sea, 

as  this  obscure  sea 
Which    engulfs   in   its  flowing   side   the   plunging 

prow. 

1  see     thy    dark    hair ;    in    thy    pale,     beautiful 

face 
I  see  the  wandering  fires  of  thine  eyes  ;    I  see  thy 

laughter-parted  rosy  lips  ; 
But  into  thy  soul,  into  that  darkness,  no,  I  do  not 

see. 

And  yet  this  is  the  poet  who,  in  his 
beautiful  reminiscences  (Dal  Libro  dei 
Ricordi),  writes  thus  of  his  dear  home 
at  the  foot  of  the  slope  where  the 
Parthenon  rears  its  sacred  outline  ("  la 
dolce  casa  .  .  .  sulla  cui  cima  altero  il 
Par  tenon  drizza  la  sacra  mole  ") : 

Avea  presso  un  giardin,  triste  e  sever o, 
Benchd  di  rose  pieno  e  di  viole, 
E  un  gran  cipresso,  avviluppato  e  nero, 
Aduggiava  di  fredda  ombra  le  ajuole. 

V  era,  pien  d'acqua,  e  di  figure  adorno, 
Un  sarcofago  antico,  alia  cui  sponda 
Veniano  a  her  le  rondini  dal  cielo. 

371 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

Alto  silenzio  tenea  I'  aria  intorno, 
E  nella  pace  estatica  e  profonda 
Non  si  vedea  crollar  foglia  nt  stelo.* 

Truly,  as  has  been  said  of  him,  Arturo 
Graf  may  see  as  a  Hellene,  and  write  in 
Italian,  his  maternal  tongue,  but  it  is  the 
sad  Northern  soul,  "Panima  tedesca,"  which 
speaks  in  his  poetry.  In  Idea  Fissa,  one  of 
the  most  notable  poems  in  his  first  book, 
Dopo  il  Tramonto  (After  Sundown),  he 
reveals,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  the 
overwhelming  prepossession  of  a  single 
idea  which  all  his  life  has  bewitched  his 
imagination  and  entranced  his  mind.  His 
Muse,  in  a  word,  is  Death,  whether  he  call 
her  "  Morte  Regina,"  or  "  Morte  Guerriera," 
or  "  Regina  del  Mondo,"  or  veils  his  sombre 
passion  under  an  antique  name,  as  in  that 
strange  and  terrible  second  book,  Medusa  : 

*  "  Near  by  was  a  garden,  somewhat  sad  and 
austere,  for  all  that  it  was  full  of  roses  and  violets  ; 
perhaps  because  of  the  great  cypress,  a  pyramid 
of  green  darkness,  which  cast  its  chill  shadow 
athwart  the  garden- ways. 

"  There,  too,  with  carven  figures  and  full  of 
water,  stood  an  antique  sarcophagus,  where  the 
swallows  loved  to  dip  and  drink. 

"  A  deep  stillness  brooded  around,  rose  into 
the  silent  air  :  the  peace  was  a  husht  ecstasy, 
wherein  no  stem  moved,  no  leaf  quivered." 

372 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

O  mia  lugubre  Musa 

Implacabile  Erinni, 

Tu  dal  mio  labbro  fai  proromper  gl'  inni 

Venenati,  O  Medusa  !  * 

There  is,  however,  more  variety,  along 
with  still  more  evident  beauty  and  mastery, 
in  Graf's  third  book,  Le  Danaidi,  published 
in  1897.  A  few  months  ago  appeared  his 
Morgana,  in  which,  though  there  is  no  poem 
to  compare  with  Citta  dei  Titani  of  the 
Danaidi  volume,  nor  any  sequence  to  parallel 
the  Athenian  Libro  dei  Ricordi  in  Dopo  il 
Tramonto,  a  more  serene  spirit,  somewhat 
of  a  wise  hedonism,  is  revealed.  We  even 
encounter  lines  such  as  : 

.  .  .  nell'  aria  chiara 
Cantano  i  mandolini — 
/  mandolini  arguti 

Dalle  voci  tremanti, 

Onde  perdon  lor  vanti 
Arpe,  flauli,  liuti. 
Cantano,  Gioja,  amove  ! 

which  surprise  one  almost  as  though  one 
were  to  come  upon  an  ode  of  Anacreon 
in  the  text  of  Ecclesiastes  !  Nevertheless, 
Ruit  Hora  might  be  the  apt  title  of  the 

*  "  O  sombre  and  dread  Muse,  implacable 
Erinnys,  thou  makest  these  lips  sing  poisoned 
hymns,  O  Medusa  !  " 

373 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

book,  and  its  motto  the  couplet  to  which 
so  much  music  and  thought  and  longing 
are  attuned  : 

M io  vecchio  core,  mio  povero  core, 
Perche  se'  tu  cost  triste  e  inquieto  ; 

or  that  undernote  that  is  never  lost : 

Passato  &  'I  tempo  de'  teneri  inganni, 
Passato  &  r  ora  propizia  all'  amove. 

The  book  closes  with  a  short  poem,  Explicit, 
which  might  well  stand  as  epilogue  to  all  its 
sad  beauty — a  sadness  not  wholly  in  vain, 
for  it  is  the  sadness  of  a  fine  and  noble  spirit, 
and  as  such  is  accepted  in  Italy,  and  so  is 
become  in  a  sense  representative  : 

EXPLICIT 

Non  uno  de'  ben  vani,  in  ch'  io  gid  confidai, 

Mi  tenne  fede  mai  : 
do  mi  riempie  il  core,  che  a  soffriv  mal  s'  avvezza, 

D'  una  grande  amarezza. 

Non  una  delle  colpe,  ch'  io  commisi  in  mia  vita, 

E  rimasta  impunita  : 
do  mi  riempie  il  core  (povera,  nuda  stanza  /) 

D'  una  grande  speranza.* 

*  "  Not  one  good  thing,  now  lost,  in  which  once 
I  put  all  my  trust,  has  ever  remained  with  me  ; 
and  this  has  filled  my  heart,  even  now  so  ill- 
accustomed  to  suffer,  with  a  great  bitterness. 

"  Not  one  of  all  the  faults  I   have  committed 

374 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

There  is  an  even  greater  difference  between 
the  pessimism  of  Ada  Negri,  whose  Fatalita 
has  had  in  Italy  a  wider  acceptance  than 
almost  any  other  recent  book  of  verse,  and 
that  of  Arturo  Graf,  than  between  Graf's 
and  Leopardi's.  Leopardi  was  the  exponent 
of  the  malady  of  his  age  :  Graf  is  the  poet 
of  the  soul's  secret  dread  and  despair  :  Ada 
Negri  is  of  the  many  whose  strength  lies 
in  wild  protest,  fierce  denunciation,  in  scorn 
and  reproach,  and  the  voice  of  social  misery. 
Her  poetry  has  the  swift  movement  and 
lyrical  vehemence  of  the  early  revolutionary 
poems  of  Swinburne,  or  of  Victor  Hugo's 
Les  Chdtiments,  but  it  has  also  the  faults  of 
these,  and  that  in  an  exaggerated  degree. 
An  instance  from  the  same  poem  (Sfida — 
Defiance,  or  Challenge)  will  suffice.  We 
sympathise  when  she  cries  : 

E  sei  tu  dunque,  tu,  mondo  bugiardo, 
Che  vuoi  celarmi  il  sol  de  gl'  ideali  ;  * 

but  we  only  smile  at  the  rhetoric  of  : 

O  grasso  mondo  d'  oche  e  di  serpenti, 
Mondo  vigliacco  che  tu  sia  dannato  ; 

in  my  life  but  has  had  to  pay  its  penalty  :  and 
this  has  filled  my  heart  (poor,  bare  habitation) 
with  a  great  hope." 

*  "It  is  you,  then,  lying  world,  who  conceal 
from  me  the  fair  heaven  of  the  ideal." 

375 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

Fisso  lo  sguardo  ne  gli  astri  fulgenti 
lo  movo  incontro  al  fato* 

Many  of  us  have  been  Ada  Negris  in  our 
day.  As  we  grow  older  we  not  only  do  not 
call  our  fellows  geese  and  serpents,  but 
even  settle  down  to  tolerate  them  with 
kindly  complacency.  Miss  Ada  Negri  her- 
self, revolutionist,  socialist,  intransigeante , 
is  now  the  Signora  Garlanda,  the  wife  of  a 
wealthy  Milanese  bourgeois. 

Nevertheless,  there  is  in  her  work  a  power 
to  influence.  Its  secret  may  be  discerned 
in  the  poem  in  Fatalitd  called  Senza  Nome 
(Nameless),  wherein  she  speaks  of  herself 
as  an  enigma  of  hate  and  love,  of  violence 
and  gentleness  ("un  enigma  son  io  d'odio 
e  d'  amore,  di  forza  e  di  dolcezza  "),  and 
says  that  throughout  her  life  "  an  evil 
spirit  has  followed  me  step  by  step,  and  an 
angel  with  hands  claspt  in  prayer  "  ("  se- 
guono  i  passi  miei  maligno  un  nano  e  un 
angelo  pregante ").  It  is  the  combina- 
tion in  her  of  class-hatred  and  feminine  un- 
selfishness which  have  won  her  so  many 
friends  ;  and  the  secret  of  her  influence 

*  "  O  world,  swarming  with  geese  and  serpents, 
wretched  world,  may  damnation  be  your  lot. 
With  my  gaze  fixt  on  the  shining  stars,  I  move 
onward  to  my  destiny." 

376 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

is,  on  the  one  side,  the  frank  recognition  of 
the  power  of  absorbing  love  to  ennoble 
circumstance,  as  in  that  passionate  and 
vivid  poem,  Popolana  (A  Girl  of  the  People), 
and,  on  the  other,  her  grandiose  vision  of 
the  congregated  sorrows  and  sufferings  of 
the  world,  as  in  the  burning  lines  of  the 
unforgettable  I  Vinti  (The  Vanquished) 
— "  Behold  them,  in  hundreds,  in  thousands, 
in  millions,  in  countless  hordes  ;  from  their 
serried  ranks  rises  a  rumour  as  of  distant 
thunder.  .  .  .  Alas,  alas,  we  are  the  van- 
quished !  " — and  in  her  poignant  sense  of 
spiritual  retribution,  as  in  /  Grandi  (The 
Great  Ones  of  the  Earth)  : 

.  ,  .  Ma  piango  il  sangue  del  mio  COY  sui  Grandi 

De  la  tenebra. — Sono 
Gli  Affamati,  gli  Oppressi,  i  Venerandi, 

Che  tregua  n&  perdono* 

-  To  turn  from  this  tempestuous  emotion 
and  troubled  art  to  the  serene  air  of  Carducci 
—though  he  too  is  the  poet  of  revolt — or 
to  the  languorous  beauty  of  D'Annunzio's 
verse,  or  to  the  exquisite  art  and  natural 

*  "  From  my  heart  I  weep  tears  of  blood  for 
those  who  were  once  Great  Ones  of  the  earth  : 
now,  in  the  Other-world,  they  are  the  Starving, 
the  Oppressed,  the  Aged  and  Stricken,  knowing 
neither  truce  nor  mercy." 

377 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

charm  of  Pascoli,  is  to  exchange  the  noise 
and  sordidness  of  a  manufacturing  town  for 
the  intellectual  peace  of  a  library,  or  the 
charmed  stillness  of  a  cloister,  or  the  gladness 
of  a  spring  day  in  the  open.  Books  such  as 
Giovanni  Pascoli 's  MyriccB  and  the  maturer 
and  finer  Poemetti  bring  into  Italian  litera- 
ture to-day  something  of  what  Words- 
worth, Keats,  and  Tennyson,  in  a  fresh, 
vivid  naturalism,  brought  into  English 
poetry.  So  now  we  come  to  the  two  most 
eminent  names  in  Italy  to-day — to  the  old 
king  and  the  insurgent  prince,  Giosue 
Carducci  and  Gabriele  D'Annunzio. 

It  is  now  nearly  thirty  years  since  the 
Hymn  to  Satan — that  modern  "  classic  "  of 
spiritual  and  intellectual  revolt — electrified 
Italy.  To-day  it  will  be  read  without  the 
same  answering  thrill,  perhaps  even  with 
lessened  admiration.  Rhetoric  has  not  the 
staying-power  of  the  grave  ecstasy  that  is 
perfected  art ;  and  this,  perhaps  the  most 
famous  lyrical  poem  of  the  last  half -century, 
is  largely  superb  rhetoric.  Nevertheless, 
the  fragrance  and  the  bloom  are  still  upon 
that  unique  flower,  grown  in  the  troubled 
solitudes  of  spiritual  desire.  .Nor,  to  vary 
the  metaphor,  have  the  echoes  yet  died 
away,  in  any  country,  of  that  clanging 
378 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

tocsin,  that  war-song  of  the  pagan  spirit. 
If,  nowadays,  no  one  even  in  Italy  anathe- 
matises Carducci  as  a  worshipper  of  evil 
because  of  his  Inno  a  Satana,  there  are  few 
probably,  in  Italy  or  elsewhere,  who  would 
not  now  regard  the  Satanic  epithets  and 
allusions  as  somewhat  pantomimic  and 
grotesque.  For,  of  course,  Carducci  does  not 
mean,  never  did  mean,  to  invoke  the  Prince 
of  Evil !  All  that  the  celebrated  (and 
technically  marvellous)  Hymn  means  is, 
Let  us  be  done  with  what  is  outworn  ;  let 
us  worship  only  what  makes  for  divinity  ; 
let  us  rejoice  in  our  mortal  destiny,  and 
in  our  world,  and  not  cry  shame  upon  our 
humanity  ;  let  us  be  done  with  shams  ; 
let  us  be  up  and  rejoice  ;  let  us  be  up  and 
doing.  It  is  but  the  principle  of  rebirth, 
of  revolt,  the  law  of  material,  as  of  spiritual, 
resurrection  which  the  poet  invokes  in  his 
Satan : 

Salute,  O  Satana, 

O  ribellione, 

O  forza  vindice 

Delia  ragione  ! 

And  it  is  not  to  the  conventional  "  Prince 
of  this  World,"  but  to  no  other  than  Alastor, 
the  Spirit  of  Beauty,  which  every  poet  has 
worshipped  since  poetry  became  the  dream 
379 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

of  the  human  soul,  that  he  cries  :  "For  thee 
Adonis  lived  ;  for  thee  Astarte  ;  for  thee 
came  into  being  the  marbles,  the  pictures, 
and  golden  verse,  when,  from  the  Ionian 
wave,  Aphrodite  arose  with  her  great  joy  ; 
for  thee  roared  the  forests  of  Lebanon  .  .  . 
for  thee  sang  the  chorus  ...  for  thee  raved 
the  dances." 

The  rhetorical  fires  have  long  ere  this 
expended  their  inflammatory  force :  the 
beauty  remains.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
day  will  not  come  when  the  youth  of  Italy 
will  no  more  be  stirred  by  the  magic  of  the 
lines  of  the  famous  Hymn  : 

Tva  le  odorifere 
Palme  d'ldume, 
Dove  biancheggiano 
Le  ciprie  spume* 

If  the  Inno  a  Satana  be  so  characteristic 
of  Carducci,  not  less  characteristic  of  his 
mental  attitude,  of  the  ethical  aspect  of  his 
splendid  achievement,  are  those  other  words 
of  his — "  Send  forth  upon  the  wind  the  cry 
of  the  watchman  :  '  The  age  renews  itself, 
the  day  of  fulfilment  is  nigh.'  " 

In  this  sense  the  Hymn  is  typical  of 
Carducci 's  poetry  ;  for  here  again,  we  may 

*  "  'Neath  the  odoriferous   Palms   of    Id  time, 
Where  whitens  the  foam  Of  the  Cyprian  wave." 
380 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

say,  the  rhetorical  part  served,  or  still 
serves,  its  purpose  ;  what  is  of  sheer  beauty 
remains.  We  doubt  if  the  achievement  of 
any  living  poet  could  stand  comparison 
with  that  of  Giosue  Carducci  in  the  great 
qualities  of  distinction,  strength,  and  classic 
beauty.  Within  a  limited  range,  Heredia 
is  the  sole  name  to  suggest ;  but  Heredia  is 
a  sculptor  in  ivory,  Carducci  is  of  the 
kindred  of  Michael  Angelo ;  or,  again, 
Heredia  is  as  one  of  the  exquisite  minor 
poets  of  the  Anthology,  Carducci  a  latter-day 
Catullus,  with  a  far  greater  intellectual  and 
national  inspiration  and  range.  Neither 
Heredia  nor  Arturo  Graf,  not  even  Leconte 
de  Lisle,  has  more  truly  cherished  and  given 
us  anew  "  the  antique  beauty."  For  Car- 
ducci, the  beauty  that  was  of  old  is  the  one 
immortal  thing  in  this  world  of  mortal 
change  and  chance.  For  him,  as  he  says 
in  the  Primavere  Elleniche,  "though  all 
other  gods  may  die,"  the  divinities  made 
immortal  by  the  Greek  genius  "  live  still 
among  ancient  woods  and  in  the  eternal 
seas." 

For  Carducci,  too,  is  the  honour  of  having 
restored  to  Italian  poetry  the  dignity  it 
had  long  lost.  This  true  brother  of  Catullus 
has  not  only  moulded  anew  the  form  of 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

lyric  verse,  but  has  set  forward  a  strenuous 
ideal  for  his  countrymen  who  would  strive 
to  recreate  and  not  to  imitate. 

Odio  I'  usata  poesia  :  concede 
Comoda  al  vulgo.  .  .  . 
*  *  *  * 

A  me  la  strofa  vigile,  .  .  . 

as  he  writes  in  the  famous  Prelude,  in 
rhymeless  Catullan  verse,  in  the  first  series 
of  the  Odi  Barbare. 

But  Carducci  is  much  more  than  "  the 
high-priest  of  impeccable  form."  He  is  a 
poet  inspired  by  a  lofty  patriotism,  a  poet 
troubled  by  the  deep  problems  of  modern 
life,  a  prophet  of  high  destinies,  national 
and  mundane.  Even  "  the  pagan  note  " 
throughout  his  work,  sane  and  wise  as  no 
small  part  of  it  indubitably  is,  must  not  be 
over-emphasised.  We  find  this  pagan  note, 
it  is  true,  in  every  personal  utterance  even 
of  the  graver  poet  of  mature  age  ;  but  now 
it  is  the  utterance  of  one  who  realises  that 
in  the  pagan  spirit  alone  lies  no  likelihood 
of  escape  from  the  Slough  of  Despond. 
In  contemporary  Italian  literature  Carducci 
stands  pre-eminent  as  the  poet  who  has 
given  his  whole  life  to  the  service  of  his  art, 
to  the  persistent  ideal  to  recreate  in  beauty 
382 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

and  distinction,  to  make  his  own  art  ("  far 
P  arte  ")  in  his  own  way  :  the  poet  who 
writes  : 

Or  destruggiam.     Dei  secoli 

Lo  strata  &  sul  pensiero  : 

O  pocht  e  forti,  all'  opera, 

CM  nei  profundi  £  il  vero.* 

For  fifty  years  Carducci  has  led  the  van 
of  the  literary  Risorgimento.  To-day  he 
stands  higher  than  ever,  as  immeasurably 
the  greatest  modern  Italian  poet.  He  has 
lived  to  see  the  seed  of  his  wise  and  of 
his  unwise  "  paganism  "  flourish,  and  to 
accept  both  harvests  philosophically  ;  but 
above  all  he  has  lived  to  rejoice  that  the 
nation  at  large  is  not  only  the  richer  but 
the  stronger  for  what  he  has  given  of  his  best. 

In  one  respect,  at  least,  Gabriele  D'An- 
nunzio  is  to  be  mentioned  with  his  great 
compatriot,  for  whatever  be  the  short- 
comings of  this  brilliant  and  fascinating 
personality — we  speak  of  him  solely  as  a 
writer  in  prose  and  verse — he  has  the 
unique  poetic  temperament.  For  him  too 
the  "  word  "  is  sacred,  a  secret  minister,  an 

*  "  Now  perforce  we  destroy.  The  highway  of 
the  ages  is  built  upon  thought.  To  the  work, 
then,  O  few  and  strong,  for  truth  is  of  the 
depths." 

383 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

ally  to  be  won,  at  once  slave  and  tyrant. 
For  him  too  the  one  dominant  ideal  is 
"far  1'  arte,"  "to  make  art."  D'Annunzio 
does  not  fall  short  of  Carducci  because  of 
any  lack  of  those  shaping  and  colouring 
qualities  which  make  for  the  rarest  and 
highest  art,  but  because,  in  the  main,  he 
has  failed  to  see  that  it  is  not  mere  imagina- 
tion that  triumphs,  but  controlled  imagina- 
tion ;  that  song  must  be  the  outcome  of 
long  spiritual  meditation,  so  that  from  the 
greater  depth  it  may  soar  to  greater  height ; 
that  spiritual  understanding  is  as  much 
the  poet's  concern  as  the  swift  flame  of 
lyrical  emotion.  In  a  word,  though  D'An- 
nunzio has  all  the  artistic  qualities,  he  has 
them  to  excess,  so  that  there  is  no  equipoise 
as  with  Carducci.  Nor,  with  all  his  culture, 
his  wide  range,  his  cosmopolitan  sympathies, 
has  he  the  like  instinctive  scholarship — a 
scholarship  that  is  something  more  than 
erudition,  for  we  are  thinking  of  a  mental 
quality  rather  than  of  intellectual  accom- 
plishment. On  the  other  hand,  while  more 
derivative  than  Carducci,  he  is  not  less 
lacking  in  originality.  He  is  an  instance, 
simply,  of  the  literary  temperament  in 
alliance  with  that  order  of  creative  genius 
which  must  gather  from  many  gardens,  and 
384 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

in  the  gathering  is  both  heedless  as  to  what 
honey  is  stolen  and  indifferent  to  what 
accusations  are  bandied.  And,  in  truth,  the 
honey  of  the  poet  is  all  that  need  concern 
the  critic  of  poetry.  A  poet's  methods 
may  be  interesting  ;  it  is  the  results  that 
convince,  or  do  not  convince. 

Moreover,  D'Annunzio  is  less  derivative 
in  his  poetry  than  in  his  prose.  At  any  rate 
he  does  not  "  convey  "  in  the  one  as  he 
sometimes  too  audaciously  does  in  the 
other  ;  though  there  are  notable  exceptions 
to  this  generalisation,  as,  for  example,  in 
the  very  Maeterlinckian  passage  in  the 
drama  La  Gloria,  where  the  group  of  physi- 
cians and  others  keep  the  vigil  of  death 
near  the  dying  patrician.  Of  course  as  a 
young  man  he  imitated,  now  Carducci, 
now  Leopardi,  now  Baudelaire,  now  Catullus 
or  the  poets  of  the  Greek  Anthology,  now 
Shelley,  now  de  Musset.  But  these  imitations 
were  the  tentative  efforts  of  a  potent  per- 
sonality that  had  not  yet  learned  the  height 
or  direction  of  its  true  course. 

Either  as  poet  or  novelist,  however, 
D'Annunzio  is  not  properly  understood  in 
this  country.  This  is  partly  because  he 
is  an  extreme  exemplar  of  the  pagan  side 
of  the  Latin  temper,  and  of  the  Latin  habit 

ii  385  2  B 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

of  mind.  Yet  more  and  more,  as  we  con- 
sider his  already  notable  and  variegated 
achievement,  we  believe  that  D'Annunzio's 
superabundant  faults  and  shortcomings  blind 
Northerners,  not  only  to  his  marvellous  art, 
but  to  his  power  and  influence  as  an  accepted 
type,  as  a  signal  genius  of  the  Latin  race. 
The  gulf  between  the  Latin  and  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  is  greater  than  is  commonly  recognised 
in  these  days,  when  it  is  a  commonplace 
that  racial  distinctions  tend  to  disappear. 
It  is,  on  the  contrary,  possible,  perhaps 
probable,  that  this  gulf  is  not  being  bridged 
more  and  more,  but  rather  that  the  division 
grows  deeper. 

Nor  has  D'Annunzio  yet  said  all  that  he 
has  to  say.  It  might  indeed  be  urged  that 
he  has  now  been  long  enough  before  the 
public  for  judgment  to  be  passed  on  his 
limitations,  for  an  estimate  all  but  certain 
as  to  what  he  can  not  do.  But  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  author  of  Primavere 
was  but  a  boy  of  fifteen  ;  that  the  poet, 
dramatist,  novelist  of  to-day  is  even  now 
still  a  young  man,  being  on  the  sunny  side 
of  forty. 

It  is  as  a  poet  of  nature  that  D'Annunzio 
is  at  his  best.  With  the  exception  of  Gio- 
vanni Pascoli  (to  compare  whom  would  be, 
386 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

as  it  were,  to  compare  Andre  Chenier  and 
Baudelaire,  or  the  author  of  Endymion 
with  the  author  of  Poems  and  Ballads),  he 
has  in  this  respect  no  rival.  He  has  the  com- 
pelling passion  for  the  sea  so  characteristic 
of  Swinburne ;  the  love  of  mountain- 
solitude  and  lonely  wilds  so  characteristic 
of  Wordsworth,  though  a  love  less  simple 
in  sentiment  and  less  natural  in  expression  ; 
something  of  the  charm,  too,  that  we  find 
in  Theocritus  ;  something  of  the  delicate 
and  intimate  touch  of  Tennyson.  To  this 
is  added  a  rapt  intensity  of  vision  and 
emotion  sometimes  considered  characteristi- 
cally Celtic,  though  it  is  in  truth  too  primi- 
tive and  universal  a  quality  to  be  adequately 
expressed  by  any  literary  label.  We  come 
to  think  of  him  at  times,  not  as  the  D'An- 
nunzio  of  scandal  and  criminal  passion, 
but  the  poet  pure  and  simple,  as  a  faun 
become  a  man  and  a  modern  singer,  who 
remembers  old  songs  and  the  antique 
world,  and  at  heart  is  a  faun  indeed,  or 
at  least  "  veritamente  un  figlio  della  terra 
antica,"  as  in  the  Song  of  the  Sun  in  Canto 
Novo  : 

Sta  il  gran  meriggio  su  questa  di  ftutti  »  di 

piante 
Verde  azzurrina  conca  solitaria  : 

387 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

Ed  to,  come  il  fauno  antico  in    agguato,    m' 

ascondo, 
Platano  sacro,  qui  fra  le  chiome  tue.  .  .  .* 

But  if  we  are  allured  at  times  into  this 
wonder -world  of  intimate  nature,  we  are 
more  often  recalled  to  the  sad  world  of 
weariness  and  disillusion,  hearing  the  super- 
sensuous,  decadent,  ennuye  poet  crying, 
"  O  cessate  !  la  musica  mi  stanca,"  or  "  Chi 
potra  darmi  un  qualche  nuovo  senso  ?  " 
There  is  one  thing  inevitable  for  him  who 
drinks  too  long  and  too  deep  from  the  cup 
of  experience.  If  weariness  and  disillusion 
may  inspire,  they  must  also  weaken  the  art 
of  the  poet  who  has  thus  drunken  and  not 
known  when  to  throw  the  cup  aside. 

Sono  spogliati  tutti  i  miei  rosai. 
Non  piu  ghirlande  !     E  la  mia  coppa  I  vuota. 
Bevvi,  bevvi  e  ribevvi.     A I  fine  ignota 
Non  me  nessuna  ebrezza  .  .  .f 

*  "  The  heats  of  noon  whelm  this  green  solitary 
hollow,  filled  with  blue  sheen  like  a  shell  of  the 
sea  ;  and  I,  as  a  faun  of  the  antique  time,  in  a 
branch-hid  hiding-place,  crouch  here  among  thy 
shadowy  boughs,  O  sacred  plane-tree." 

f  "  Despoiled  now  are  all  my  roses  :  no  garlands 
now  !  The  bitter-sweet  cup  is  empty.  I  have 
drunk  of  it  again,  and  yet  again,  and  yet  again. 
Nothing,  no  intoxication,  is  left  to  me  to 
know.  .  ,  ." 

388 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

It  is  the  salutary  part  of  this  poetry  of 
weariness,  so  characteristic,  not  only  of 
D'Annunzio,  but  of  all  he  stands  for 
in  that  decadent  phase  of  thought  and 
literature  and  life  of  which,  on  one 
side  at  least,  he  is  the  foremost  ex- 
emplar, that,  when  revulsion  is  at  hand, 
the  reader  is  almost  always  won  back 
by  some  beautiful  vision  of  the  world 
we  know  and  love,  or  by  some  deep  and 
sincere  cry  from  the  poet's  heart — "  Allor 
che  su  '1  vento  maestrale  mi  balzava  la 
strofe  .  .  .  squillando  annanzi,  O  mare, 
O  mare,  O  mare  !  "  * 

In  his  so-called  decadent  verse,  too, 
there  is  much  of  great  beauty,  some  of  it 
at  least  being  no  more  "  decadent  "  than  is 
that  poetic  melancholy  which  is  the  habit 
of  mind  of  all  the  poets  of  love,  from  Catullus 
or  Omar  Khayyam  to  Leconte  de  Lisle  and 
Carducci.  Read,  for  instance,  The  Triumph 
of  Iseult  (itself  a  metrical  triumph  in  the 
difficult  manner  of  Lorenzo  di  Medici), 
recalling  as  it  does  Villon  and  Swinburne 
and  William  Morris,  and  yet  so  unmistak- 
ably the  poet's  own,  with  its  monotonously 

*  "  Then  on  the  tempestuous  wind  my  song 
turns,  crying,  with  great  longing,  O  sea,  O  sea, 
O  sea  !  " 

389 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

sweet  refrain,  "  For  everything  save  love  is 
vain  "  : 

Torna  in  fior  di  giovinezza 

Isaotta  Blanzesmano, 

Dice  :    Tutto  al  mondo  $  vano. 

N&  I'  amove  ogni  dolcezza  !  * 

That,  too,  is  the  poet's  own,  the  stanza 
of  Death,  as  a  beautiful  woman,  closing  the 
procession,  however  much  the  Guinevere 
and  other  stanzas  suggest  comparison  with 
familiar  lines  of  the  poets  named  above  : 

Chiude  il  gran  covteo  la  Morte  ; 
Non  la  dea  de'  cemeteri, 
Ma  una  fresca  donna  e  forte 
Cut  valletti  lusinghieri 
Sono  i  Sogni  ed  i  Piaceri 
Da  'I  gentil  volto  pagano. 
Dice  :   Tutto  al  mondo  &  vano, 
Ne  I'  amove  ogni  dolcezza  1 1 

Perhaps  one  reason  why  D'Annunzio 
appeals  more  strongly  than  Carducci  to 
the  Italians  of  the  North,  to  the  French  of 

*  "  Cometh  again,  in  her  flower  of  youth,  Iseult 
of  the  White  Hands.  She  says  :  '  All  the  world  is 
vain  :  in  love  only  doth  all  sweetness  live.'  " 

t  "  At  the  end  of  the  noble  cortege,  Death  ; 
not  the  sombre  Lady  of  Graves,  but  a  beauti- 
ful and  strong  woman,  whose  train-bearers  are 
Dreams  and  Delights,  each  of  a  noble  pagan 
beauty.  And  she  too  says  :  '  All  the  world  is 
vain  :  in  love  only  doth  all  sweetness  live.'  " 

390 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

the  North,  to  the  Germans  and  ourselves, 
is  that  he  has  more  of  the  love  of  the  mys- 
terious. In  one  of  his  most  beautiful 
short  poems,  the  Fas  Mysteri,  in  the  Poema 
Paradisiaco  volume  of  1893,  he  makes, 
indeed,  a  direct  invocation  to  that  veiled 
Muse  :  "  Apriti  al  fine,  O  tu  che  1'  urna  sei 
del  Mistero  !  "  And,  again,  because  he  is  a 
prophet  of  "  the  joy  to  come  "...  that 
"  far-off  day  of  the  travailing  genera- 
tions "  : 

Cantate,  O  venti  !     Ne  V  ignoto  mare 
E  I'  Isold  promessa  : 
La  come  in  sommo  d'  un  immenso  altare 
E  la  gioia  promessa.  .  .  . 

Gabriele  D'Annunzio  is  now  before  his 
countrymen  as  a  "  national "  poet.  We 
do  not  think  that  his  essentially  lyrical 
and  emotional  genius  is  well  fitted  for  a 
sustained  flight  ;  but  perhaps  of  this  no 
foreigner  can  properly  judge.  Meanwhile 
the  lyrical  epic  of  Garibaldi  is  in  part  given 
to  the  world.*  In  judging  this  lyrical  epic, 

*  The  Canzone  di  Garibaldi,  published  in  1901, 
is  not,  as  many  critics  apparently  imagine,  a 
completed  work.  The  present  instalment  is  a 
poem  of  twenty-two  sections  amounting  in  all 
to  1004  lines.  The  actual  title  of  this  section  is 
The  Night  of  Caprera,  and  it  is  the  third  in  a  series 

391 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

or  "  epical  series  of  lyrical  chants,"  one 
must  bear  in  mind  the  author's  own  comment 
that  the  poems  should  be  recited  aloud 
rather  than  silently  read,  "  per  vivere  della 
sua  piena  vita  musicale,  ella  ha  bisogno  di 
passare  nella  bocca  sonante  del  dicitore." 
But  it  must  be  admitted  that,  with  many 
fine  lines,  and  frequent  subtle  and  enchanting 
effects,  as  in 

Ei  si  ricorda  nelV  alba  di  Novembre  : 
Quando  salpo  da  Quarto  era  la  sera, 
Sera  di  Maggio  conridere  di  stelle, 

there  is  also  much  mere  rhetoric,  and  at  times 
a  bathos  sinking  to  the  level  of  distinctly 
commonplace  prose. 

Here,  as  in  matters  of  deeper  import,  it 
is  to  be  wished  that  D'Annunzio  had  more 
of  the  intellectual  pride  and  artistic  control 
of  his  greater  compatriot,  Giosu£  Carducci ; 
and  the  more  so  as  his  influence  is  becoming 
steadily  more  potent  in  Italy,  despite  ob- 
stacles of  all  kinds,  and  notwithstanding 
both  the  unwise  and  the  wise  prejudices 
of  possibly  the  majority  of  the  critics  and 

of  seven.  In  time  we  are  to  have  the  other 
"  books  "  or  sections  :  (i)  The  Birth  of  the  Hero  ; 
(2)  The  Ocean  and  the  Pampas  ;  (4)  From  Rome  to 
the  Pontine  Marshes  ;  (^)Aspromonte  and  Mentana  ; 
(6)  The  Crown  of  Peace  ;  (7)  The  Hero's  End. 

392 


Italian  Poets  of  To-day 

of  the  reading  public.  Carducci's  high  place 
is  now  beyond  cavil.  He  for  his  part  has 
ever  thought  of  his  to-morrow.  Gabriele 
D'Annunzio  has  owed  so  much  to  French 
writers  that  it  is  to  be  wished  he  could 
more  consistently  have  borne  in  mind, 
that  he  may  henceforth  bear  in  mind,  the 
memorable  words  of  Sainte-Beuve :  "C'est 
a  ce  lendemain  seVere  que  tout  artiste 
serieux  doit  songer."  And  what  better 
watchword  could  he  too  have  than  that  of 
his  master  the  veteran  Carducci,  already 
adopted  by  Young  Italy,  fervent  and  hope- 
ful :  "  O  pochi  e  forti,  all'  opera  !  "— "  To  the 
good  work,  then,  O  ye  few  and  strong  !  " 


393 


THE  HEROIC  AND  LEGENDARY 
LITERATURE  OF  BRITTANY 

IF  one  were  asked  what  were  the  three 
immediate  influences,  the  open-sesames  of 
literature,  which  revealed  alike  to  the 
dreaming  and  the  critical  mind  of  modern 
Europe  the  beauty  and  extraordinary 
achievement  of  the  Celtic  genius,  it  would 
not  be  difficult  to  name  them.  From  Scot- 
land came  Macpherson's  reweaving  of  ancient 
Gaelic  legendary  lore  under  the  collective 
title  of  Ossian ;  from  Wales  came  the 
Mabinogion,  obtained  and  translated  by 
Lady  Charlotte  Guest ;  and  from  Brittany 
came  the  now  celebrated  life-work  of  the 
Vicomte  Hersart  de  la  Villemarque,  the 
Barzaz-Breiz,  or  collection  of  the  popular 
songs  and  heroic  ballads  of  old  Brittany — 
some  mediaeval,  some  with  their  roots  in 
the  heart  of  ancient  Armorica. 

The  history  of  the  influence  of  these 
three  books — Ossian,  the  Mabinogion,  and 
the  Barzaz-Breiz — has  never  yet  been  pro- 

394 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

perly  estimated.  When  a  competent  critic 
shall  give  us  this  history,  in  its  exact  and 
critical  relation  to  literature  itself,  the  deep 
and  far-reaching  power  of  what  may  be 
distinguished  as  fundamentally  appealing 
books  will  be  made  apparent. 

If  these  were  the  immediate  influences  in 
the  awakening  of  the  mind  of  Europe  to  the 
beauty  and  mystery  and  high  significance  of 
the  old  Celtic  literature,  legendary  lore,  and 
racial  traditions,  the  general  attention  was 
attracted  rather  by  two  famous  pioneers  of 
critical  thought.  In  France,  Ernest  Renan, 
himself  of  Celtic  blood  and  genius,  and  having 
indeed  in  his  name  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
sacred  of  Armorican  designations  (Ronan), 
gained  the  notice  of  all  intellectual  Europe 
by  his  acute,  poignantly  sympathetic,  and 
eloquent  treatise  on  the  Poetry  of  the  Celtic 
Races.  Later,  in  England,  Matthew  Arnold 
convinced  his  reluctant  fellow-countrymen 
that  a  new  and  wide  domain  of  literary 
beauty  lay  as  it  were  just  beyond  their  home 
pastures. 

Since  Renan  and  Matthew  Arnold,  there 
have  been  many  keen  and  ever  more  and 
more  thoroughly  equipped  students  of  Celtic 
literature  ;  but  while  admitting  the  immense 
value  of  the  philological  labours  of  men  such 
395 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

as  the  German  Windisch,  the  English 
Whitley  Stokes,  the  French  Loth,  the 
Scottish  Dr.  Cameron,  the  Welsh  Sir  John 
Rhys,  and  the  Irish  Standish  Hayes  O'Grady, 
or  of  the  more  popular  writings  of  collectors 
and  exponents  such  as  the  late  Campbell  of 
Islay,  Alfred  Nutt,  Standish  O'Grady,  and 
others,  it  would  be  at  once  unjust  and 
uncritical  to  omit  full  recognition  of  the 
labours  of  collectors  and  interpreters  such 
as,  say,  Alexander  Carmichael  in  Scotland, 
and  Hersart  de  la  Villemarque  in  France. 

There  can  hardly  be  a  student  of  Celtic 
literature  who  is  unfamiliar  with  the  Barzaz- 
Breiz,  that  unique  collection  of  Breton 
legendary  lore  and  heroic  ballads  so  closely 
linked  with  the  name  of  Hersart  de  la 
Villemarque.  This  celebrated  man — at  once 
collector,  folk-lorist,  philologist,  poet,  and 
impassioned  patriot — was  not  only  born  a 
Breton  of  the  Bretons,  but  began  life  among 
circumstances  pre-eminently  conducive  to 
his  mental  development  along  the  lines 
where  he  has  made  his  name  of  world- 
wide repute.  His  great  work  *  was  not 

*  Barzaz-Breiz.  Chants  Populaires  de  la  Bre- 
tetgne,  recueillis,  traduits,  et  annotts  par  le  Vicomte 
Hersart  de  la  Villemarque,  M.I.  (work  crowned 
by  the  Academy  of  France). 

396 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

only  the  outcome  of  his  own  genius  and  of 
his  racial  inheritance,  but  was  inspired  by 
his  mother,  a  remarkable  woman  of  a  very 
ancient  Armorican  family.  It  is  to  her 
that  the  Barzaz-Breiz  was  dedicated  :  "A 
ma  tendre  et  sainte  mere,  Marie-Ursule 
Feydeau  du  Plessix-Nizon,  Comtesse  de  la 
Villemarque."  So  significant  are  the  open- 
ing words  of  his  introduction  to  the  new 
and  definite  edition  (1893)  that  they  may  be 
given  here  : 

A  profound  sentiment  [he  says  in  effect] 
inspired  the  idea  of  this  book  wherein  my  country 
stands  forth  self -portrayed,  and  in  that  revela- 
tion wins  our  love.  In  sending  forth  this  revised 
reprint  of  my  work,  doubtless  for  the  last  time, 
and  feeling  myself  to  be  as  much  as  in  my  early 
days  under  the  spell  of  her  love,  I  dedicate  this 
work  to  her  who  really  began  it,  and  that  too 
before  I  was  born — to  her  who  enthralled  my 
childhood  with  old-world  ballads  and  legendary 
tales,  and  who  herself  was  indeed  for  me  one  of 
those  good  fairies  who,  as  the  old  lore  has  it, 
stand  by  the  side  of  happy  cradles.  My  mother, 
who  was  also  the  mother  of  all  who  were  un- 
happy, once  restored  to  health  a  poor  wandering 
singer  of  the  parish  of  Melgren.  Moved  by  the 
sincere  regrets  of  the  poor  woman  at  her  inability 
to  convey  aright  her  gratitude  to  her  benefactress, 
having  indeed  nothing  in  the  world  to  offer  but 
her  songs,  my  mother  asked  her  to  repeat  one  or 
two  of  her  treasury  of  folk-songs.  So  impressed 
was  she  by  the  original  character  of  the  Breton 

397 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

poetry,  that  often  thereafter  she  sought  and 
obtained  a  like  pleasure.  At  a  later  date,  though 
this  was  not  for  herself,  she  made  a  special  quest 
of  this  ancestral  countryside  fugitive  poetry. 
Such  was  the  real  origin — in  a  sense  purely 
domestic  and  private,  and  primarily  the  outcome 
of  a  sweet  and  pious  nature — of  this  collection  of 
the  Barzaz-Breiz  ;  some  of  the  finest  pieces  in 
which  I  found  written,  in  the  first  years  of  the 
century,  on  the  blank  leaves  of  an  old  manuscript 
volume  of  recipes  wherein  my  mother  had  her 
store  of  medical  science. 

As  for  what  M.  de  la  Villemarque  himself 
did  to  qualify  for  his  lifelong  labour  of  love, 
he  writes  as  follows  : 

To  render  this  collection  at  once  more  complete 
and  worthy  of  the  attention  of  literary  critics, 
and  of  all  students  of  literature  and  life,  scrupulous 
and  conscientious  care  has  been  taken.  I  have 
gone  hither  and  thither  on  my  quest  through  long 
years,  and  traversed  every  region  of  Basse-Bre- 
tagne  [Western  and  Southern  Brittany],  the  richest 
in  old  memories  ;  taking  part  in  popular  festivals 
and  in  private  gatherings,  at  our  national  pardons 
[pilgrimages],  at  the  great  fairs,  at  weddings,  or 
the  special  fete-days  of  the  agricultural  world 
and  of  the  workers  in  all  the  national  industries  ; 
ever  by  preference  seeking  the  professional  beggars, 
the  itinerant  shoemakers,  tailors,  weavers,  and 
vagrant  journeymen  of  all  kinds — in  a  word,  in 
the  whole  nomad  song-loving,  story-telling  fra- 
ternity. Everywhere,  too,  I  have  interrogated 
the  old  women,  nurses,  young  girls,  and  old  men  ; 
above  all,  those  of  the  hill  regions,  who  in  the  last 

398 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

century  formed  part  of  the  armed  bands  of  patriots, 
and  whose  recollections,  when  once  they  can  be 
quickened,  constitute  a  national  repertory  as  rich 
as  any  one  could  possibly  consult.  Even  children 
at  their  play  have  sometimes  revealed  to  me 
unexpected  old-world  survivals.  Ever  varying  as 
was  the  degree  of  intelligence  in  all  these  people, 
they  were  at  one  in  this  :  that  no  one  among 
them  knew  how  to  read.  Naturally,  therefore, 
the  songs  and  legends  and  superstitions  which 
I  heard  thus  are  not  to  be  found  in  books,  and 
never  at  least  as  here  given  ;  for  these  came  fresh 
from  the  lips  of  an  illiterate  but  passionately 
conservative,  patriotic,  and  poetic  people. 

In  a  word,  Brittany  is,  in  common  with 
Ireland  or  Gaelic  Scotland,  the  last  home 
of  the  old-world  Celt,  of  the  old  Celtic 
legendary  and  mythological  lore,  of  the 
passing  and  ever  more  and  more  fugitive 
Celtic  folk -literature.  Scotland  has  her 
Campbell  of  Islay,  her  Alexander  Carmichael ; 
Brittany  has  Hersart  de  la  Villemarque. 

The  scientific  value  of  M.  de  la  Ville- 
marque's  Barzaz-Breiz  has  been  disparaged 
by  some  writers,  to  whom  the  pedantry  of 
absolute  literality  is  more  dear  than  the 
living  spirit  of  which  language  is  but  the 
veil ;  and  this  on  the  ground  that  his  ver- 
sions are  often  too  elaborated,  and  are  some- 
times modern  rather  than  archaic.  The  best 
answer  is  in  the  words  of  the  famous  Breton 

399 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

himself,  in  the  preface  to  the  revised  and 
definite  edition.  After  detailing  the  endless 
care  taken,  and  the  comparative  method 
pursued,  he  adds :  "  The  sole  license  I 
have  permitted  myself  is  the  substitution, 
in  place  of  certain  mutilated  or  vicious 
expressions,  or  of  certain  unpoetic  or  less 
poetic  verses,  of  corresponding  but  more 
adequate  and  harmonious  verses,  or  words 
from  some  other  version  or  versions.  This 
was  the  method  of  Walter  Scott  [in  his 
Scottish  Minstrelsy],  and  I  could  not  follow 
a  better  guide." 

The  Barzaz-Breiz,  or  Treasury  of  Breton 
Popular  Chants,  is  a  storehouse  of  learned 
and  most  interesting  and  fascinating  matter 
concerning  the  origins  and  survival  and 
interrelations  of  the  racial  and  other 
legendary  beliefs,  and  superstitions,  and 
folk-lore  generally,  of  the  Armorican  people 
— Arvor,  or  Armorica,  being  the  old  name 
of  Brittany,  the  Wales  of  France.  In  the 
introductory  and  appendical  notes  to  each 
heroic  ballad  or  legendary  poem,  Hersart  de 
la  Villemarque  has  condensed  the  critical 
and  specialistic  knowledge  of  one  of  the 
most  indefatigable  and  enthusiastic  of  folk- 
lorists ;  and  this  with  the  keenness  of 
sympathy  and  of  insight,  and  the  new  and 
400 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

convincing  charm  of  interpretation,  of  a 
man  of  genius. 

It  is  amazing  how  little  of  his  work  has 
been  translated  or  paraphrased  in  English, 
especially  when  we  consider  the  ever-growing 
interest  in  literature  of  the  kind,  and  par- 
ticularly in  Celtic  literature. 

The  three  representative  pieces  which  I 
have  translated  from  the  Barzaz-Breiz  are 
not  only  typical  of  the  ancient  and  the 
mediaeval  Breton  romance  or  heroic  ballad, 
but  are  given  intact  with  their  prefatory 
and  appendical  notes. 

The  Wine  of  the  Gauls  is  one  of  the  earliest 
preserved  utterances  of  the  ancient  Armori- 
can  bards.  The  Tribute  of  Nomenoe  is  still 
old,  though  not  so  ancient.  The  Foster  - 
Brother  is  a  type  of  both  the  style  and 
substance  of  the  mediaeval  folk-tale. 


THE  WINE  OF  THE  GAULS  AND  THE 

DANCE  OF  THE  SWORD 

(DIALECT  OF  LEON) 

Argument 

One  is  not  ignorant  that  in  the  sixth 
century  the  Bretons  often  made  excursions 
into  the  territory  of  their  neighbours,  subject 

ii  401  2  c 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

to  the  domination  of  the  Franks,   whom 
they  called  by  the  general  name  of  Gauls. 
These  expeditions,  undertaken  oftenest  under 
the  necessity  of  defending  their  independence, 
were  also  sometimes  ventured  through  the 
desire  of  providing  themselves  in  the  enemy's 
country  with  what  they  lacked  in  Brittany, 
principally  with  wine.     As  soon  as  autumn 
came,  says  Gregory  of  Tours,  they  departed, 
followed   by    chariots,    and   supplied   with 
instruments    of    war    and    of    agriculture ; 
armed  for  the  vintage.     Were  the  grapes 
still  hanging,  they  plucked  them  themselves  ; 
was  the  wine  made,  they  carried  it  away. 
If  they  were  too  hurried,  or  surprised  by  the 
Franks,  they  drank  it  on  the  spot ;  then, 
leading  the  vintagers  captive,  they  joyously 
regained   their  woods   and   their   marshes. 
The    piece    here   following   was   composed, 
according  to  the  illustrious  author  of  the 
Merovingian  Accounts,  on  the  return  from 
one    of    these    expeditions.     Some    tavern 
habitues  of    the   parish  of  Coray  intone  it 
glass  in  hand,  more  for  the  melody  than  for 
the  words  ;    the  primitive  spirit  of  which, 
thanks  be  to   God,   they  have   ceased   to 
seize. 


402 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 


Better  is  white  wine  of  grapes  than  of  mulberries  ; 
better  is  white  grape  wine. 

—O  fire  !  O  fire  !  O  steel  !  O  steel  ! 
O  fire  !  O  fire  I  O  steel  and  fire  ! 
O  oak  I  O  oak  !  O  earth  I  O  waves  I 
O  waves  !  O  earth  !  O  earth  and 
oak  ! — 

Red  blood  and  white  wine,  a  river  I    red  blood  and 
white  wine  I 

—O  fire  I   O  fire  t  &>c. 

Better  new  wine  than  ale  ;   better  new  wine. 
—O  fire  I  O  fire  !  &>c. 

Better  sparkling  wine  than  hydromel ;  better  sparkling 
wine. 

—O  fire  !   O  fire  I  6-c. 

Better  wine  of  the  Gauls  than  of  apples  ;  better  wine 
of  the  Gauls. 

—O  fire  !  O  fire  !  &c. 

Gaul,  vines  and  leaf  for  thee,  O  dunghill  I    Gaul, 
vine  and  leaf  to  thee  ! 

— O  fire  !   O  fire  !   &c. 

White  wine  to  thee,  hearty  Breton  !    White  wine  to 
thee,  Breton  ! 

—O  fire  I  O  fire  I  S>c. 

Wine  and  blood  flow  mixed  ;  wine  and  blood  flow, 
—O  fire  !   O  fire  !  6>c. 

White  wine  and  red  blood,  and  thick  blood  ;   white 
wine  and  red  blood. 

— O  fire  !  O  fire  t  &c. 

4°3 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

'Tis  blood  of  the  Gauls  that  flows  ;   the  blood  of  the 
Gauls. 

fire  !   O  fire  !   &c. 


In  the  rough  fray  have  I  drunk  wine  and  blood  ; 
I  have  drunk  wine  and  blood. 
— O  fire  !   O  fire  !   &c. 

Wine  and  blood  nourish  him  who  drinks  ;  wine  and 
blood  nourish. 

fire  !  O  fire  !  &>c. 


II 

Blood  and  wine  and  dance,  Sun,  to  thee  !   blood  and 
wine  and  dance. 

—O  fire  !   O  fire  !   &>c. 

And  dance  and  song,  song  and  battle  1    and  dance 
and  song. 

— O  fire  I  O  fire  I  &-c. 

Dance    of   the    sword    in    rounds ;    dance    of    the 
sword. 

— O  fire  !  O  fire  !  &-c. 

Song  of  the  blue  sword  which  murder  loves  ;  song  of 
the  blue  sword. 

—O  fire  !   O  fire  !  &>c. 

Battle  where  the  savage  sword  is  king  ;  battle  of  the 
savage  sword. 

— 0  fire  I  O  fire  I  &c. 

O  sword  I  O  great  king  of  the  battlefield  !  O  sword  ! 
O  great  king  I 

fire  I   O  fire  I   &-c. 
404 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

May  the  rainbow  shine  on  thy  forehead  !    may  the 
rainbow  shine  ! 

— O  fire  1  O  fire  I  O  steel  I  O  steel  ! 
O  fire  I  O  fire  !  O  steel  and  fire  ! 
O  oak  !  O  oak  !  O  earth  !  O  earth  ! 
O  waves  !  O  waves  !  O  earth  !  O  earth 
and  oak  I 

Note 

It  is  probable  that  the  expedition  to  which 
this  wild  song  alludes  took  place  on  the 
territory  of  the  Nantais  ;  for  their  wine 
is  white,  as  is  that  of  which  the  bard  speaks. 
The  different  beverages  he  attributes  to 
the  Bretons — mulberry  wine,  beer,  hydromel, 
apple  wine  or  cider — are  also  those  which 
were  used  in  the  sixth  century. 

Without  any  doubt  we  have  here  two 
distinct  songs,  welded  together  by  the  power 
of  time.  The  second  begins  at  the  thirteenth 
stanza,  and  is  a  warrior's  hymn  in  honour 
of  the  sun,  a  fragment  of  the  Sword  Round 
of  the  ancient  Bretons.  Like  the  Gaels 
and  the  Germans,  they  were  in  the  habit  of 
surrendering  themselves  to  it  during  their 
festivals  ;  it  was  executed  by  young  men 
who  knew  the  art  of  jumping  circularly  to 
music,  at  the  same  time  throwing  their 
swords  into  the  air  and  catching  them 
again. 

405 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

This  is  represented  on  three  Celtic  medal- 
lions in  M.  Hucher's  collection  :  on  one  a 
warrior  jumps  up  and  down,  while  brandish- 
ing his  battle-axe  in  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  throwing  it  up  behind  his  long  float- 
ing headdress;  on  a  second  one,* a  warrior 
dances  before  a  suspended  sword,  and,  says 
M.  Henri  Martin,  he  is  evidently  repeating 
the  invocation :  "  O  sword  !  O  great  king  of 
the  battlefield  !  O  sword  !  O  great  king  !  " 

This,  it  is  obvious,  would  cast  us  back 
into  plain  paganism.  At  least  it  is  certain 
that  the  language  of  the  last  seven  stanzas 
is  still  older  than  that  of  the  other  twelve. 
As  for  its  form,  the  entire  piece  is  regularly 
alliterated  from  one  end  to  the  other, 
like  the  songs  of  the  primitive  bards  ;  and, 
like  them,  is  subject  to  the  law  of  ternary 
rhythm.  I  have  no  need  to  draw  notice 
to  what  a  clashing  of  meeting  weapons  it 
recalls  to  the  ear,  and  what  a  strident 
blast  the  melody  breathes. 

THE  TRIBUTE  OF  NOMENOE 

(CORNOUAILLE   DIALECT) 

Argument 

Nomenoe,  the  greatest  king  whom  Brittany 
has  had,  pursued  the  work  of  his  country's 
406 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

deliverance,  but  by  different  means  than  his 
predecessors.  He  opposed  ruse  to  force  ; 
he  feigned  to  submit  to  the  foreign  domina- 
tion, and  by  these  tactics  succeeded  in 
impeding  an  enemy  ten  times  superior  in 
numbers.  The  Emperor  Charles,  called  the 
Bald,  was  deceived  by  his  demonstrations 
of  obedience.  He  did  not  guess  that  the 
Breton  chief,  like  all  politicians  of  superior 
genius,  knew  how  to  wait.  When  the 
moment  for  acting  came,  Nomenoe  threw 
off  the  mask  :  he  drove  the  Franks  beyond 
the  rivers  of  the  Oust  and  of  Vilaine, 
extending  the  frontiers  of  Brittany  to 
Poitou ;  and  taking  the  towns  of  Nantes 
and  Rennes  from  the  enemy,  which  since 
then  have  not  ceased  to  make  part  of 
the  Breton  territory,  he  delivered  his  com- 
patriots from  the  tribute  which  they  paid 
to  the  Franks  (841). 

"  A  remarkably  beautiful  piece  of  poetry," 
says  Augustin  Thierry,  "  and  one  full  of 
details  of  the  habits  of  a  very  ancient  epoch, 
recounts  the  event  which  determined  this 
grand  act  of  independence."  According  to 
the  illustrious  French  historian,  "it  is  an 
energetically  symbolic  picture  of  the  pro- 
longed inaction  of  the  patriot  prince,  and 
of  his  rude  awakening  when  he  judged  the 
407 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

moment    had    come  "  (Ten  Years  of  His- 
torical Studies,  6th  ed.,  p.  515). 

I 

The  golden  grass  is  mown  ;  it  has  misted  suddenly. 
— To  battle  I — 

It  mists, — said,  from  the  summit  of  the  mountain  of 
Arez,  the  great  chief  of  the  family  ; 

— To  battle  ! — 

From  the  direction  of  the  country  of  the  Franks, 

for  three  weeks  more  and  more,  more  and  more, 

has  it  misted, 

So  that  in  no  wise  can  I  see  my  son  return  to  me. 
Good  merchant,  who  the  country  travels  o'er,  know'st 

thou  news  of  Karo,  my  son  ? — 
Mayhap,  old  father  of  Arez  ;    but  how  looks  he  ? 

what  does  he  ? — 
He  is  a  man  of  sense  and  of  heart ;  he  it  was  who 

went  to  drive  the  chariots  to  Rennes, 
To  drive  to  Rennes  the  chariots  drawn  by  horses 

harnessed  three  by  three, 
Divided   between   them,    they   that   carry  faithfully 

Brittany's  tribute. — 
//  your  son  is  the  tribute-bearer,  in  vain  will  you 

await  him. 
When  they  came  to  weigh  the  silver,  there  lacked 

three  pounds  in  every  hundred  ; 
And  the   steward  said :     Thy   head,   vassal,   shall 

complete  the  weight. 
And  drawing  his  sword,  he  cut  off  the  head  of  your 

son. 
Then  by  the  hair  he  took  it,  and  threw  it  on  the 

scales* — 

408 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

At  these  words  the  old  chief  of  the  family  was  like 

to  swoon  : 
Violently  on  the  rock  he  fell,  hiding  his  face  with  his 

white  hairs  ; 
And  his  head  in  his  hands,  he  cried  with  a  moan  : 

Kara,  my  son,  my  poor,  dear  son  ! 

II 

Followed  by  his  kindred,  the  great  tribal  chief  set 

out ; 
The  great  tribal  chief  of  the  family  approaches,  he 

approaches  the  stronghold  of  Nomenoe. — 
Tell  me,  head  of  the  porters, — the  master,  is  he  at 

home  ? 
Be  he  there,  or  not  there,  God  keep  him  in  good 

health  !— 
As  these   words  he  said,  the  lord  to  his  dwelling 

returned  ; 
Returning  from   the    hunt,    preceded   by   his   great 

playful  dogs, 
In  his  hand  he  held  his  bow,  on  his  shoulder  carried 

a  boar, 
A  nd  the  fresh  blood,  quite  warm  from  the  mouth  of 

the  beast,  flowed  upon  his  white  hand. 
Good  day,  good  day  to  you,  honest  mountaineers  ! 

first  of  all  to  you,  great  tribal  chief  : 
What  news  is  there,  what  wish  you  of  me  ? — 
We  come  to  know  of  you  if  a  law  there  be  ;  if  in  the 

sky  there  is  a  God,  and  in  Brittany  a  chief. — 
In  the  sky  there  is  a  God,  I  believe,  and  in  Brittany 

a  chief  if  I  can. — 
He  who  will,  he  can  ;  he  who  can,  drives  the  Frank 

away — 
Drives  away  the  Frank,  defends  his  country,  avenges 

it  and  will  avenge  it. 

409 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

He  will  avenge  the  living  and  dead,  and  me  and 

Karo  my  child, 
My  poor  son  Karo,  beheaded  by  the  excommunicated 

Frank  ; 
Beheaded  in  his  prime,  and  whose  head,  golden  as 

millet,  was  thrown  into  the  scales  to  balance  the 

weight  ! — 
A  nd  the  old  man  began  to  weep,  and  his  tears  flowed 

down  his  gray  beard, 
And  they  shone  as  the  dew  on  a  lily,  at  the  rising 

of  the  sun. 
When  the  lord  saw  this,  a  bloody  and  terrible  oath  he 

swore  : — 
By  this  boar's  head  and  the  arrow  which  pierced  it, 

I  swear  it : 
Before  I  wash  the  blood  from  my  right  hand,  I  shall 

have  washed  my  country's  wound  ! 

Ill 

Nomenoe   has   done  that  which  no    chief  e'er  did 

before  : 
He  went  to  the  shores  of  the  sea  with  bags  to  gather 

pebbles, 
Pebbles  to  tender  as  tribute  to  the    steward  of  the 

bald  king.* 

Nomenoe  has  done  that  which  chief  ne'er  did  before  : 
With  polished  silver  has  he  shod  his  horses,  and 

with  reversed  shoes. 

Nomenoe  has  done  that  which  chief  ne'er  did  before  : 
Prince  as  he  is,  in  person  to  pay  the  tribute  he  has 

gone. — 
Open  wide  the  gates  of  Rennes,  that  I  make  entry  in 

the  town  : 

*  The  Emperor  Charles,  surnamed  the  Bald. 
410 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

With  chariots  full  of  silver,   'tis  Nomeno&  who  is 

here. — 
Alight,  my  lord  ;  enter  the  castle  ;    and  leave  your 

chariots  in  the  coach-house  ; 
Leave  to  the  equerry  your  white  horse,  and  come  and 

sup  above, 
Come  to  sup,  and  first  of  all  to  wash  :   there  sounds 

the  water-horn  ;  do  you  hear  ?  * — 
/  will  wash  in  a  moment,  my  lord,  when  the  tribute 

shall  have  been  weighed. — 

The  first  bag  to  be  carried  (and  it  was  well  tied}, 
The  first  bag  which  was  brought,  of  the  right  weight 

was  found. 
The  second  bag  which  was  brought,  also  of  right 

weight  was  found. 
The  third  bag    that    they  weighed  : — Aha  !    aha  t 

this  weight  is  not  right  ! — 
When  the  steward  this  saw,  unto  the  bag  his  hand 

he  extended  ; 
Quickly  he  seized  the  cords,  endeavouring  to  untie 

them. — • 
Wait,  wail,  Sir  Steward,  with  my  sword  I  will  cut 

them. — 
Hardly  had  he  finished  these  words,  that  his  sword 

leaped  from  the  scabbard, 
That  close  to  the  shoulders  the  head  of  the  Frank 

bent  double  it  struck, 
And  that  it  cut  flesh  and  nerves  and  one  chain  of 

the  scale  beside. 
The  head  fell  in  the  scale,  and  thus  the  balance  was 

made. 
But  behold  the  town  in  uproar : — Stop,   stop  the 

assassin  I 

*  Before  the  repast,  at  the  sound  of  the  horn, 
one  washed  one's  hands. 

411 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

He  escapes,  he  escapes  !   bring  torches  !  let  us  run 

quickly  after  him. — 
Bring  torches  !  'twould  be  well :  the  night  is  black, 

and  frozen  the  road  ; 
But  I  greatly  fear  you  will  wear  out  your  shoes  in 

following  me, 
Your  shoes  of  blue  gilded  leather  :   as  to  your  scales, 

you  will  use  them  no  more  ; 
You  will  use  no  more  your  golden  scales  in  weighing 

the  stones  of  the  Bretons. 

—To  battle  !— 


Note 

This  traditional  portrait  of  the  chief  whose 
political  genius  saved  Breton  independence 
is  no  less  faithful,  from  its  point  of  view, 
than  those  of  history  itself.  Thus,  Augustin 
Thierry  did  not  hesitate  to  place  it  in  the 
gallery  which  contemporaneous  history  has 
preserved  to  us,  and  which  he  has  so  admir- 
ably restored.  The  latter  proves  by  its 
general  spirit,  if  by  no  precise  feature,  the 
exactitude  of  the  anecdote.  Before  the 
time  of  Nomenoe,  for  at  least  ten  years,  the 
Bretons  had  paid  tribute  to  the  Franks  ; 
he  delivered  them  from  it  :  that  is  the  real 
fact.  The  tone  of  the  ballad  is  in  harmony 
with  the  epoch. 

As  the  head  of  the  Frank  charged  to  re- 
ceive the  tribute  falls  in  the  scales,  where 
412 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

the  weight  is  lacking,  and  the  poet  cries  with 
ferocious  joy,  "  His  head  fell  in  the  basin, 
and  the  weight  was  thus  made  !  "  one  remem- 
bers that  a  few  years  ago  Morvan,  the  Lez- 
Breiz  of  the  Breton  tradition,  said,  trembling 
with  rage :  "If  I  could  see  him,  he  would 
have  of  me  what  he  asks,  this  king  of  the 
Franks  :  I  would  pay  him  the  tribute  in 
iron." 

In  regard  to  the  epic  song  with  which 
the  liberator  of  Brittany  inspired  the  national 
Muse,  the  satirical  song  composed  in  the 
Abbey  of  St.  Florent  against  Nomenoe  is 
opposed.  The  Frankish  monks  of  the 
shores  of  the  Loire  could  not  pardon 
him  the  destruction  of  their  monastery  ; 
and  to  avenge  themselves  they  invented 
the  following  fable,  which  they  chanted  in 
chorus  : 

In  that  time  lived  a  certain  man  called  Nomenoe  : 
Of  poor  parents  he  was  born  ;   his  field  he  plowed 

himself  ; 
But  hidden  in  the  earth  an  immense  treasure  he 

encountered  ; 
By  means  of  which  among  the  rich  many  friends 

for  himself  he  made  ; 
Then,  clever  in  the  art  to  deceive,  he  began  himself  to 

raise  ; 
So  that,  thanks  to  his  riches,  he  finished  by  domi 

nating  all,  &-ct 

413 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

Quidam  fuit  hoc  tempore 
Nomenoius  nomine  ; 

Pauper  fuit  progenie  ; 
A  grunt  colebat  vomere  ; 

Sed  reperit  largissimum 
Thesaurum  terra  conditum  ; 

Quo  plurimorum  divitum 
Junxit  sibi  solatium. 

Dehinc,  per  artem  fallere, 
Ccepit  qui  mox  succrescere, 

Donee  super  cunctos,  ope 
Transcenderet  potentice,  &c. 

Poor  Latin,  poor  rhymes/ poor  revenge. 


THE  FOSTER-BROTHER 

(TREGUIER  DIALECT) 
Argument 

This  ballad,  some  variants  of  which  I 
owe  to  the  Abbe  Henry,  and  which  is  one 
of  the  most  popular  of  Brittany,  is  sung 
under  different  titles  in  several  parts  of 
Europe.  Fauriel  has  published  it  in  modern 
Greek  ;  Burger  picked  it  up  from  the  lips 
of  a  young  German  peasant  girl,  and  gave 
it  an  artificial  form  ;  The  Dead  go  about 
Alive  is  but  an  artistic  reproduction  of  the 
Danish  ballad  Aage  and  Else.  A  Welsh 
414 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

savant  has  assured  me  that  his  compatriots 
of  the  mountains  possess  it  in  their  language. 
All  are  based  on  the  idea  of  a  duty,  the  obe- 
dience to  the  sacredness  of  the  oath.  The 
hero  of  the  primitive  German  ballad,  like 
the  Greek  Constantine,  like  the  Breton 
cavalier,  vowed  to  return,  though  dead ; 
and  he  kept  his  word. 

We  do  not  know  to  what  epoch  the  com- 
position of  the  two  German  and  Danish 
songs,  nor  that  of  the  Greek  ballad,  date 
back  :  ours  must  belong  to  the  most  flourish- 
ing period  of  the  Middle  Ages,  chivalric 
devotion  shining  therein  by  its  sweetest 
lustre. 


The  prettiest  girl  of  high  degree  in  all  this  country 

round  was  a  young  maid  of  eighteen  years,  whose 

name  was  Gwennolaik. 
Dead  was  the  old  lord,  her  two  poor  sisters  and  her 

mother ;    her  own  people  all  were   dead,   alas  ! 

except  her  stepmother. 
It  was  pitiful  to  see  her,  weeping  bitterly  on  the 

threshold  of   the    manor-door,  so    beauteous    and 

so  sweet ! 
Her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sea,  seeking  there  the  vessel 

of  her  foster-brother,  her  only  consolation  in  the 

world,  and  whom  since  long  she  had  awaited  ; 
Her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sea,  and  seeking  there  the 

vessel  of  her  foster-brother.     Six  years  had  passed 

since  he  had  left  his  country. — 

415 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

Away  from  here,  my  daughter,   and  go  and  fetch 

the  cattle  ;    I  do  not  feed  you  to  remain  there 

seated. — 
She  awaked  her  two,  three  hours  before  the  day  in 

winter,  to  light  the  fire  and  sweep  the  house  ; 
To  go  to  draw  water  at  the  fountain  of  the  dwarfs, 

with  a  little  cracked  pitcher  and  a  broken  pail  ; 
The  night  was  dark  ;    ihe  water  had  been  disturbed 

by  the  foot  of  the  horse  of  a  cavalier  who  returned 

from  Nantes. — 

Good   health   to  you,   young   maid  :    are  you   be- 
trothed ?— 
And  I  (what  a  child  and  fool  I  was  /) — I  replied  : 

I  wot  naught  of  it. — 

Are  you  betrothed  ?     Tell  me,  I  pray  you. — 
Save  your  grace,  dear  sir  :  not  yet  am  I  betrothed. — 
Well,  take  my  golden  ring,  and  say  to  your  stepmother 

that  unto  a  cavalier  who  returns  from  Nantes  you 

are  betrothed : 
That  a  great  combat  there  has  been  ;   that  his  young 

esquire  has  been  killed  over  there,  that  he  himself  by 

a  sword-thrust  in  the  flank  has  been  wounded  ; 
Thai  in  three  weeks  and  three  days  he'll  be  restored, 

and  to  the  manor  will  come  gayly  and  quickly  to 

seek  you. — 
And  she  to  run  at  once  to  the  house  and  to  look  at 

the  ring  :    it  was  the  ring  that  her  foster-brother 

wore  on  his  left  hand. 

II 

One,  two,  three  weeks  had  passed,  and  the  young 

cavalier  had  not  yet  returned. — 
You  must  be  married  ;    I  have  thought  thereon  in 

my  heart,  and  for  you  a  proper  man,  my  daughter, 

I've  found. — 

416 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

Save  your  grace,  stepmother,  I  wish  no  husband  other 

than  my  foster-brother,  who  has  come. 
He  gave  me  my  wedding-ring  of  gold,  and  soon  will 

come  gayly  and  quickly  to  seek  me. — 
Be  quiet,  if  you  please,  with  your  wedding-ring  of 

gold,  or  I  will  take  a  rod  to  teach  you  how  to  speak. 
Willy-nilly,  you  shall   wed  Job    the  Lunatic,   our 

young  stable-boy. — 
Wed  Job  !   Oh  horror  !  I  shall  die  of  sorrow  !    My 

mother,  my  poor  little  mother  !  if  thou  wert  still 

alive  ! — 
Go  and  lament  in  the  court,  mourn  there  as  much  as 

you  will  ;  in  vain  will  you  make  a  wry  face  :    in 

three  days  betrothed  you'll  be. 


Ill 

About  that  time  the  old  gravedigger  travelled  through 

the  country,   his  bell  in  his  hand,   to  carry  the 

tidings  of  death. 
Pray  for  the  soul  which  hath  been  the  lord  cavalier, 

in  his  lifetime  a  gdlfd  man  and  a  brave. 
And  who  beyond  Nantes  was  wounded  to  death  by 

a  sword-thrust  in  his  side,  in  a  great  battle  over 

there. 
To-morrow  at  the  setting  of  the  sun  the  watching  will 

begin,  and  thereafter  from  the  white  church  to  the 

tomb  they  will  carry  him. 

IV 

How  early  you  do  go  away ! — Whether  I  am 
going?  Oh,  yes.  indeed  ! — But  the  feast  is  not  yet 
done,  nor  is  the  evening  spent. — 

1  cannot  restrain  the  pity  she  inspires  in  me,  and 
II  417  2  D 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

the  horror  which  awakes  this  herdsman  who  stands 

in  the  house  face  to  face  with  her  ! 
Around  the  poor  girl,  who  bitterly  wept,  every  one 

was  weeping,  the  rector  himself  : 
In  the  parish  church  this  morn  all  were  weeping,  all 

both  young  and  old  ;   all  except  the  stepmother. 
The  more  the  fiddlers   in  returning  to  the  manor 

twanged  their  bows,  the  more  they  consoled  her, 

the  more  was  her  heart  torn. 
They  took  her  to  the  table,  to  the  place  of  honour  for 

supper ;   she  has  drunk  no    drop    of  water,    nor 

eaten  a  morsel  of  bread. 
They  tried  just  now  to  undress  her,  to  put  her  in 

her  bed  :   she  has  thrown  away  her  ring,  has  torn 

her  wedding  fillet  ; 
She  has  escaped  from  the  house,  her  hair  in  disorder. 

Where  she  has  gone  to  hide,  no  one  doth  it  know. 

V 

All  lights  were  extinguished  ;    in  the  manor  every 

one  profoundly  slept  ;  elsewhere,  the  poor  young 

maid  was  awake,  to  fever  a  prey. — 
Who  is  there  ? — I,  Nola,  thy  foster-brother. — 
It  is  thou,  really,  really  thou  !     It  is  thou,  thou, 

my  dear  brother  ! — 
And  she  ran  to  go  out,  and  to  flee  away  on  her  brother's 

white  horse  in  saddle  behind,  encircling  him  with 

her  little  arm,  seated  behind  him. — 
How  fast  we  go,   my  brother !     We  have  gone  a 

hundred  leagues,   I   think  !     How  happy   I  am 

near  unto  thee  !     So  much  was  I  never  before. 
Is  it  still  afar,  thy  mother's  house  ?     I  would  we 

were  arrived. — 
Ever  hold  me  close,  my  sister  :   ere  long  we  shall  be 

there. — 

418 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

The  owl  fled  screeching  before  them  ;  as  well  as  the 

wild  animals  frightened  by  the  noise  they  made. — 
How  supple  is  thy  horse,  and  thy  armour  how  bright ! 

I  find  thee  much  grown,  my  brother. 
I   find  thee   very   beautiful !     Is   it  still  far,    thy 

manor  ? — 
Ever  hold  me  close,   my   sister  :    we   shall  arrive 

apace. — 
Thy   heart  is   icy ;   thy   hair    is    wet ;   thy    heart 

and   thy    hand   are  icy  :   I  fear   that    thou   art 

cold. — 
Ever  hold  me  close,  my  sister  :  behold  us  quite  near  ; 

hearest  thou  not  the  piercing  sounds  of  the   gay 

musicians  of  our  nuptials  ? — 
He     had    not   finished    speaking   when    his    horse 

stopped  all  at  once,  shivering  and  neighing   very 

loud  ; 
A  nd  they  found  themselves  on  an  island  where  many 

people  were  dancing  ; 
Where  young  men  and  beautiful  young  girls,  holding 

each  other  by  the  hand,  did  play  : 
All  about  green  trees  with  apples  laden,  and  behind, 

the  sun  rising  on  the  mountains. 
A   little  clear  fountain  flowed  there  ;    souls  to  life 

returning,  were  drinking  there  ; 
Gwennola's  mother  was   with   them,    and  her  two 

sisters  also. 
There  was  nothing  there  but  pleasure,  songs,  and 

cries  of  joy. 

VI 

On  the  morrow  morning,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
young   girls   carried   the   spotless   body   of  little 
Gwennola  from  the  white  church  to  the  tomb. 
419 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

Notes 

As  will  be  remembered,  the  German 
ballad  ends,  after  the  fashion  of  the  stories 
of  the  Helden-Buch,  by  a  catastrophe  which 
swallows  up  the  two  heroes ;  it  is  the 
same  with  the  Greek  ballad  published  by 
Fauriel. 

The  ancient  Bretons  recognised  several 
stages  of  existence  through  which  the  soul 
passed  ;  and  Procopius  placed  the  Druid 
Elysium  beyond  the  ocean  in  one  of  the 
Britannic  Isles,  which  he  does  not  name. 
The  Welsh  traditions  are  more  precise  :  they 
expressly  designate  this  island  under  the 
name  of  Isle  of  Avalon,  or  of  the  Apples. 
It  is  the  abiding-place  of  the  heroes  :  Arthur, 
mortally  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Camlann, 
is  conducted  there  by  the  bards  Merlin 
and  Taliesin,  guided  by  Barinte  the  peer- 
less boatman  (Vita  Merlini  Caledoniensis). 
The  French  author  of  the  novel  of  William  of 
the  Short  Nose  has  his  hero  Renoard  trans- 
ported thither  by  the  fairies,  with  the  Breton 
heroes. 

One  of  the  Armorican  lays  of  Mary  of 

France  also  transports  thither  the  squireen 

Lanval.     And  it  is  there,  one  cannot  doubt 

it,  that  the  foster-brother  and  his  betrothed 

420 


The  Literature  of  Brittany 

alight :  but  no  soul,  it  was  said,  could  be 
admitted  there  before  having  received  the 
funeral  rites  ;  it  remained  wandering  on  the 
opposite  bank  until  the  moment  when  the 
priest  collected  its  bones  and  sang  its  funeral 
hymn.  This  opinion  is  as  alive  to-day  in 
Lower  Brittany  as  in  the  Middle  Ages ; 
and  we  have  seen  celebrated  there  the 
same  funeral  ceremonies  as  those  of  olden 
times. 

1898 


421 


THE  SEVENFOLD  NEED  IN 
LITERATURE 

(A  Fragment) 
i.  IDEA. 

ii.  TECHNIQUE. 

in.  SPONTANEITY  OF  IMPRESSION. 

FIDELITY  OF  OBSERVATION. 

SINCERITY  IN  EXPRESSION. 

Which  together  constitute  the  sig- 
nature of  truth,  whether  actual  or 
imaginativCi 

iv.  JUDGMENT  : 

Deliberation — which  is  the  spiritual 
instinct  of  Symmetry,  as  it  is  the 
intellectual  expression  of  Taste. 

v.  EMOTIONAL  POWER  : 
(i)  RHYTHM. 
(n)  EMOTION. 

vi.  INVENTION  : 

(i)  As  FORMATIVE  ENERGY. 
(n)  As  SYNTHETIC  VISION. 

vn.  THE  ACHIEVEMENT  IN  BEAUTY. 
422 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

THE  Studies  and  Appreciations  that  are  gathered 
together  in  this  selection  of  the  writings  of 
William  Sharp  were  intended  by  him  to  form 
part  of  a  volume  of  essays  on  literature  en- 
titled In  the  Garden  of  Letters,  prefaced  by  an 
essay  on  "  The  Literary  Ideal,"  of  which  only 
the  preliminary  outline  was  sketched  in  the 
fragment,  "  The  Sevenfold  Need  in  Literature," 
now  herein  included. 

These  Studies  and  Appreciations  were  written 
at  different  periods  of  the  author's  career  (from 
1885  to  1902),  either  as  editorials  to  Antho- 
logies, to  Collected  Essays,  or  as  contributions 
to  periodicals.  The  essay  on  "The  Sonnet, 
its  History  and  Characteristics,"  prefaces  his 
anthology  of  Sonnets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century 
(1886),  and  was  preceded  in  1885  by  his  edition 
of  The  Songs  and  Sonnets  of  Shakespeare.  Con- 
cerning his  critical  preface  to  the  latter  volume, 
J^Yddington  Symonds  wrote  to  the  author  that, 
in  lusoplliiun,  "  The  Preface  is  more  humanly 
and  humanely  true  about  Shakespeare's  attitude 
in  the  Sonnets  than  anything  which  has  yet 
been  written  about  them.  .  .  .  You  are  one 
of  those  who  live  (as  Goethe  has  for  ever  put  it) 
in  the  whole.  It  is  a  great  thing  for  modern 
criticism  to  get  itself  out  of  holes  and  corners, 
mere  personal  proclivities  and  scholarly  niceties, 

423 


Bibliographical  Note 

into  the  large  air  of  nature  and  of  man." 
The  paper  on  "  Great  Odes  "  was  written  for 
the  author's  collection  of  English  Odes  issued 
in  1890,  and  all  three  volumes  were  issued  in  the 
"  Canterbury  Series  "  published  by  Walter  Scott, 
Ltd.,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  permission  to 
include  these  three  essays  in  my  selection  of 
my  husband's  writings.  The  critical  memoir  of 
Sainte-Beuve  prefaces  an  English  translation  of 
the  French  critic's  Essays  on  Men  and  Women, 
which  appeared  in  the  "  Masterpieces  of  Foreign 
Authors,"  published  by  David  Stott,  in  1890. 

"The  Literature  of  Brittany,"  originally 
printed  in  vol.  xxvi.  of  Warner's  "Library  of 
Best  Literature  "  (New  York,  1898),  is  a  study 
on  the  Heroic  and  Legendary  Literature  of 
Brittany  in  the  sixth  century,  as  translated 
by  Hersart  de  la  Villemarque  in  1850.  "  La 
Jeune  Belgique  "  was  printed  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century  in  1893,  the  appreciation  of  "  Some 
Dramas  of  D'Annunzio"  in  the  Fortnightly  in 
1900;  "The  Modern  Troubadours "  (1900)  and 
"  Modern  Italian  Poets "  (1902)  were  written 
for  the  Quarterly  Review ;  and  to  the  editors 
of  those  periodicals  I  desire  to  tender  my  sin- 
cere acknowledgment  of  their  courtesy,  whereby 
I  am  enabled  to  include  the  three  essays  in  this 

present  volume. 

ELIZABETH  A.  SHARP 


BALLANTYNE  &  COMPANY  LTD 

TAVISTOCK  STREET  COVENT  GARDEN 

LONDON 


A        ^^^'""''''I'llllMIIIIIM/lllllllllljll 

M     uuo  686  348     4 


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